


Becoming

by Damonfreak89



Series: Love Crime [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Injury Recovery, Light BDSM, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mind Games, Omega Will Graham, Parenthood, Surgery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 128,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damonfreak89/pseuds/Damonfreak89
Summary: Season 3 of my A/B/O re-write of Hannibal.After the brutal events of Baltimore, Hannibal Lecter flees to Europe, swiftly pursued by a vengeful Will. Finally reuniting in Florence, Alpha and Omega come under attack from without and within as old enemies resurface to kill Dr Lecter, at any cost.Six years later, a new killer is targeting suburban families, and Jack Crawford needs Will Graham's help to catch them. To be of use to the FBI, Will needs to remember how to think like a killer, and Hannibal Lecter is the only person he can turn to. But old wounds heal slowly, with unexpected consequences.
Relationships: Alana Bloom & Margot Verger, Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Bella Crawford/Jack Crawford, Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Love Crime [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1034504
Comments: 217
Kudos: 338





	1. Antipasto

**Author's Note:**

> *** FEB 2021 UPDATE: Please note, due to my obsessive nature, I have fallen head-over-heels in love with a Batman/Joker fanfic that I am currently writing (I am weeeeeeak!!!) and so updates on this story will be slower than planned. I am very, very sorry. Bad author! I promise, though, this is still a WIP and will be finished, as well as continued Post Season 3 to ensure a Happy Ending as per the tags! Just a head's up because it's not fair to keep y'all waiting forever with no reason. ***
> 
> Hey peeps! So, you’ll notice that I’ve started taking more liberties with this season – as much as it does continue to follow canon in terms of plot, dialogue and character placement, I have tweaked a few scenes here and there (because I’d much rather have lots and lots of Hannibal and Will action, instead of Hannibal and Bedelia.)
> 
> All shall be explained over the course of the season. 
> 
> Comments are, as always, welcomed and appreciated. I hope there aren't too many typos, and that you enjoy!!!
> 
> Happy New Year!

ONE

_Antipasto_

NOW

Under the light of a summer moon, a sleek black Ducati _Diavel 1260_ cruises through the Parisian side streets. Car headlights and streetlamps reflect in the black helmet visor, and the arcing light atop the Eiffel Tower splinters the low hanging clouds descending on the city.

Dressed in black leather from head to toe, the rider deftly dodges the cars on the Champs-Élysées, following, from memory, the intricate path to the Ritz. There is a black-tie gala here, tonight, and they have timed their arrival to be fashionably late.

_In true European style._

Hannibal Lecter pulls up to the curb and cuts the engine of his motorcycle. He removes his helmet, savoring the cool breeze on his face. It is June, and he’s warm in his riding gear. Thankfully, the lobby inside is air-conditioned, and Hannibal unzips his leather jacket, allowing his thin black t-shirt to breathe.

He’s been in Paris for six months; four months longer than planned. Unfortunately, with the FBI on his tail, he requires a cover identity, and pickings have been slim on the ground.

Until now.

Alphas and their respective Omegas gather in small groups, chattering away over canapes and flutes of the finest champagne. There are a number of Betas, too, as well as unaccompanied Omegas – a scandalous affair in conservative America, commonplace in more liberal countries.

Hannibal enter the hotel and takes a glass from a passing waiter, sipping Moët as his dark eyes restlessly search for his prey. A circuit of the room confirms he is not inside, so he makes for the terrace.

Two doormen pull open the glass doors, inclining their heads as Hannibal descends the steps to the terrace.

 _There you are_.

Beyond the polished hairdos and glittering earrings of the Parisian elite, Hannibal spots a middle-aged Alpha, dressed in an expensive tuxedo and Rolex watch, which flashes every time he lifts his champagne glass to his mouth.

Dr Roman Fell. He has recently applied to work at the _Palazzo Capponi_ in Florence, though his paper has yet to be submitted. His Omega- _secondi_ , Gabrielle, stands beside him, smiling at something Roman has just said, fawning over him like the lovesick mistress she is.

 _How very antiquated,_ Hannibal thinks, sliding through the crowd like a hunting shark. _To have a harem of Omegas, like the Romans of your namesake._

He stops a distance away, watching as Roman gesticulates with his free hand, and revulsion crawls up his spine at the adoration lavished upon such an ignorant, petulant man.

After a couple of minutes, he becomes aware of someone watching him, even as he watches the other Alpha. His admirer’s energy is playful; flirtatious, and, when Hannibal separates the scents assaulting his nose, he is able to distinguish the sweet musk of an unbonded Omegan male.

_Almost as sweet as Will._

Hannibal glances from the corner of his eye, watching as a young man winks at him and knocks back one of his two glasses of champagne. He’s attractive; curling brown hair, lighter than Will’s but similar texture. Sparkling blue eyes, ringed with gold… Dimples in his cheeks and the same soft beard and moustache of his former Omega.

 _Comparing a new sexual interest with a previous mate… A typical reaction to grief_ , Hannibal thinks, viciously squashing his initial desire to dismiss the approaching man. Why shouldn’t he have a little fun, after all?

‘Anthony Dimmond,’ the Omega says, by way of introduction. His voice is melodic, the British accent clipped and polished, utterly in synch with his floral scarf, navy silk shirt and frock coat. He looks like an artist, or a student of art, and Hannibal can imagine how he would look sketched out on paper, resplendent in charcoal.

‘Boris Jakov,’ Hannibal lies, and Anthony grins again, gesturing with the champagne flutes.

‘I’d offer a hand, but…’ He shrugs an apology, and Hannibal smiles back, his eyes sparkling.

‘It’s a double-fisted kind of bash,’ he teases, and, to his delight, Anthony blushes, just a little, even as he chuckles.

Hannibal roves Anthony’s body, regarding his slender torso and slim hips, assessing and judging in an instant.

 _Acceptable_.

Anthony gestures towards Fell and his entourage.

‘Do you know Roman well?’ he asks. Hannibal feigns polite confusion, and Anthony’s eyes flash gold with humor. ‘You were staring with the thinly-veiled disdain of a man who _does_ ,’ he explains, going on to add, helpfully, ‘I was his TA at Cambridge. He was insufferable even then.’

Gulping back the last of his second champagne, Anthony deposits both glasses, somewhat clumsily, onto a passing tray and reaches into the breast pocket of his coat, revealing a paperback book with a flourish.

‘Have you read his books?’ he asks, showing Hannibal the spine of the latest one. He leans closer and, in a whiff of tasteful cologne and Omegan musk, adds in a theatrical whisper, ‘They’re _terrible_.’

Hannibal says nothing, content to watch the man flirt shamelessly with him. It’s pleasant, after all, to be the center of someone’s attention.

‘You _know_ they’re terrible,’ Anthony purrs, closing the distance even more between them, scenting the Alpha and smiling at the warmth of his interest. ‘You’re just too polite to say.’ He takes a chance and nudges a leather-clad upper arm, near-swooning at the size of the bicep muscle. ‘Blink if you agree.’

Hannibal smiles, just a fraction, and blinks, making Anthony brighten with a laugh.

‘See?’ The Omega nudges him again and then turns back to stare at Roman before he jumps the man in front of everyone. ‘That doesn’t stop him squatting over his keyboard and depositing a fresh one every six to either months,’ he continues, rolling his eyes. ‘It takes _me_ six to eight months to write one _line_.’

Hannibal takes a long drink of champagne, wondering how Will would respond to such a zesty personality as Anthony Dimmond, and then decides to indulge his curiosity.

‘Why?’

_What layers do you have? How deep does your mind go?_

Anthony’s eyes wrinkle and he shrugs, laughing at himself.

‘Poetry is hard.’ He looks at his former mentor again. ‘Too hard for _Roman_. It’s _much_ easier for him to slide into academia and dissect the work of others than it is to stand by his _own_ words.’

He nods, sagely, and Hannibal’s flicker of interest dies.

_Petty, vain and, ultimately, boring._

Anthony Dimmond will be a pleasurable distraction for an evening, perhaps two, but nothing more.

In keeping with the charade, however, Hannibal replies, agreeably,

‘One can appreciate another’s words without dissecting them. Though,’ he adds, almost as if it is an afterthought; ‘on occasion, dissection is the only thing that will do.’

As if on cue, the sound of steel being unsheathed rings out across the terrace. Glass breaks and corks erupt from champagne bottles with a bang. Hannibal, Anthony and several other guests look over, watching in surprise as a waiter, dressed in a guard’s costume, severs the ends of three bottles in a row.

Champagne fizzes and floods, creamy and white, from the shattered ends of the bottles, spattering the tiled floor in gleaming amber puddles.

_Blood makes the same sound when it spurts from the neck._

‘Bravo!’ Anthony calls, clapping his hands enthusiastically as the other guests begin to applaud. ‘Well struck, my good man!’

Hannibal merely sips his drink, but he smiles when the Omega looks to him to share his enjoyment of the stunt.

‘So,’ Anthony asks, gracefully reaching over and untucking the flap of Hannibal’s jacket collar, subtly marking him with his scent. ‘What brings you to Paris?’

‘Pleasure,’ Hannibal replies, the red rings around his irises thickening when Anthony’s scent sharpens with desire. ‘I’m a connoisseur of beauty.’

‘Well, Paris certainly has a great many beautiful things,’ Anthony agrees, and he collects another two flutes of champagne. ‘Did you…?’

‘Oh, one’s enough for me,’ Hannibal says, lifting his own glass to his lips but pausing before he takes a sip. ‘I prefer to savor the taste.’

‘I’m more of a gulp it down and go back for seconds bloke myself,’ Anthony teases, and Hannibal wets his lips.

‘Nothing wrong with enthusiasm.’ He keeps an eye on Roman Fell, who continues to hold forth to his admirers, but gives Anthony enough of his attention to make the Omega believe he has him rapt. ‘What about you? What brings an unbonded Omega to _une ville d'amour?’_

Anthony chuckles, his cheeks pinkening again in a truly delightful blush.

‘“The City of Love”,’ he muses, draining one of his glasses. ‘That’s a good name for Paris.’ He shrugs one shoulder and almost ruffles the back of his hair before he remembers he’s holding something. ‘Well, I decided to go travelling after I finished my PhD at Cambridge,’ he says. ‘See the wonders of Europe… Gain inspiration for my poetry…’

‘Avoid an unwanted mating?’ Hannibal offers, and Anthony rolls his eyes in droll agreement.

‘My grandmother’s idea,’ he explains. ‘My parents are more… _liberal_ , but, being Betas, the guardianship falls to the closest living Alpha.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ Hannibal replies, his traitorous mind returning to Will and his Beta father… Had Will’s guardianship always been a thing of question? Had his mother, the elusive Alpha – as she surely must have been – actually had the guardianship of her Omegan son all along?

‘It’s an antiquated law,’ Anthony sighs. ‘One of the few like it left in England.’

‘It sounds as though your country is more progressive, generally speaking,’ Hannibal offers, and Anthony smiles fondly.

‘It is,’ he agrees. ‘Not like _America_.’ He scoffs. ‘I swear, most of the states in that country are stuck in the Dark Ages when it comes to Omegan rights and liberties.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Hannibal says mildly, the lie flowing smoothly past his lips to the ears of his companion. ‘I’ve never been.’

‘Well, you’re not missing much,’ Anthony assures him, making a start on his full glass. ‘Europe is definitely the place to be an Omega.’

‘These days, at least,’ Hannibal replies, and Anthony tilts his head curiously. Hannibal finishes the rest of his champagne and hums his satisfaction. ‘The Medieval times were particularly difficult for Omegas,’ he explains. ‘That, and the Culling of 1878.’

Anthony gives a visible shudder and gulps the bubbling wine, making himself choke. Hannibal smiles and pats him on the back, helping him cough the liquid from his lungs. As he does, he tips his head to the Omega’s curls, inhaling the scent of him, and Anthony visibly relaxes beside him, a low purr lingering in the air between them.

‘I’m not looking for a mate,’ he says quickly, glancing up through his lashes at the taller Alpha. ‘Just a little fun.’

‘You’re certain to find fun,’ Hannibal murmurs, reaching out and pushing a gray-streaked curl of hair behind Anthony’s ear. ‘Though your body will require you to settle down soon.’

Anthony’s eyes flash gold and he scowls at the reminder of his own frailty. He makes to push Hannibal’s hand away and ends up covering the fingers, holding his palm to his cheek.

‘I hate that I don’t have a choice,’ he says. ‘I want to mate because I love someone, not because my body dictates it.’

‘We all have burdens to bear,’ Hannibal replies. ‘And you’ve done remarkably well to remain unbonded for as long as you have.’

Anthony gives a shaky sigh and then manages a grin. He steps back, breaking the spell, and lifts his remaining champagne to toast.

‘For as long as I have.’

***

They spend the rest of the party together. Anthony is fine company; sophisticated and intelligent, with a sharp tongue and endless anecdotes of the social elite with whom they mingle.

But, at the end of the night, Hannibal declines to join him in his hotel room.

‘I have a dinner this evening,’ he says, noting the way Dr Fell has begun to sway on his mate’s arm, eyes bloodshot and bleary from too much champagne. ‘How about tomorrow?’

Anthony slips a napkin into Hannibal’s jacket pocket, his number scribbled across the front in eyeliner, borrowed from an obliging Omega in the loos.

‘Don’t delay,’ he warns, golden eyes sparkling. ‘You’re not the only attractive Alpha in the city.’

‘Until tomorrow, then,’ Hannibal replies, and he presses a chaste kiss to the back of Anthony’s hand, eliciting another delicious blush from the younger man. ‘ _Bonsoir,_ _mon cher.’_

‘Enjoy your dinner,’ Anthony says, giving him a lighthearted shove, and Hannibal’s grin shows his fangs.

‘Oh,’ he purrs, his eyes glowing. ‘I _shall_.’

***

He waits for Roman Fell outside the hotel. Anthony remains inside, no doubt charming another man into sharing his bed, and Hannibal straddles his motorcycle, his body tingling with adrenaline, mind calm as a millpond and heartbeat steady.

_This is what I am. A hunter. An Apex predator._

When the other Alpha wanders towards him, resplendent in his evening coat and white scarf, Hannibal allows his eyes to flash crimson.

‘ _Bonsoir_ ,’ he calls, his voice rough with pre-Rut hormones.

Roman pauses, frowning in confusion, and gives a vague wave in return.

‘ _Bonsoir_ …?’

Hannibal lets him go and then, as Roman falls into the back of a taxi, he slides his helmet over his head.

_Let’s find out where you live, shall we?_

***

The journey is brief, and Roman is still perfectly inebriated when they arrive. Hannibal parks in the courtyard, cutting the engine and removing his helmet as the drunk Alpha quibbles over two Euros’ change.

 _Thieving bastard,_ Roman thinks, grumbling to himself under his breath as he crosses the road to his apartment. _Probably a Beta; they’re all grubby, money-stealing –_

The sight of the leather-clad Alpha from earlier, now resting back against his motorcycle with arms crossed, makes him pause. The other man is oddly still, his eyes deep red, face serene but muscles taut.

‘Bonsoir…?’ Roman offers, his sense of dread quickly escalating into terror as the Alpha straightens and says, with irises flooding Rut-red,

‘ _Bonsoir_.’

***

The apartment is exquisite, and Dr Fell has an impressive collection of operatic vinyl records, which Hannibal plays as he gives the kitchen a thorough clean before cooking.

The rich tones of Don Pasquale’s: _Sogno Soave E Casto_ fill the air, accompanying the sizzle of melting butter.

Hannibal fries off Roman’s liver, seasoning it with garlic and fresh thyme. He dishes himself a portion, nestled amidst finely chopped potatoes and Chantilly carrots, and has just settled down to eat when the front door to the apartment opens.

Lydia Fell lets herself in, wearing a fine silk dress, high heels and a velvet coat from her night at the theatre. Roman should be home; he’d taken Gabrielle to the gathering tonight, allowing her to join her parents for dinner and a show, but she’s glad to be with him again.

The rich scent of a fine cooked meal wafts through on the warm air, and Lydia smiles. Gabrielle must be here, and have ordered something from their favorite restaurant; she’ll have a plate and join them in the bedroom.

When she enters the dining room, however, she sees, not Roman but an invading Alpha. The man is sandy-haired, with cruel lips and dark eyes. He’s wearing riding gear; a black sweater and leather trousers, and his long fingers wield the cutlery – _their_ cutlery – with ease.

 _Roman’s not here,_ she thinks, but she can smell her Alpha, thick and strong, and her golden eyes drop to the plate of food, where her mate’s scent rises on the steam from the organ. _But… that’s not possible…_

_Is it?_

Hannibal lifts his head, his irises warming to crimson as Lydia’s confusion spirals into terror. His muscles coil, preparing to attack, and he smiles.

‘Bonsoir.’

***

Almost a year ago, Hannibal had served Abel Gideon his left leg cooked in clay. That had been their first dinner together; the Ripper and his Impersonator.

As Hannibal dresses for an evening of celebration with the finest scholars in Florence, he allows his mind to wander back to their second meal.

_Abel’s mind had begun to slip from reality, cracking under the pressure of constant fear as I took him apart, limb by limb._

Wheeling his silver trolley into the dining room of his Baltimore townhouse, Hannibal had smirked at the glassy-eyed Alpha in pride of place at the head of the table, pitiful as ever in his bathrobe and pajamas, with two bandaged stumps where his legs had been and a higher dose of morphine in the drip.

‘You really _are_ the Devil,’ Abel had whispered, rolling bloodshot eyes up at him as Hannibal had revealed the dish from beneath the domed lid – the whole leg, minus a foot, glazed and marinated until the scent of candy-apples and pork filled the air.

 _But it’s not pork_.

‘You certainly seem to enjoy it,’ the weaker Alpha had added, almost managing a disapproving tone. ‘You have a _click_ in your _hoof_.’

‘The Devil has been a yoke around the neck of humanity since we first began to think and dream,’ Hannibal had replied, drizzling a treacle sauce onto the meat. _‘I_ for a much shorter time.’

‘You admit the yoke.’ Abel had rolled his eyes and then made a show of scenting the air. ‘Smells of candy apples and thyme,’ he’d offered, frowning up at Hannibal. ‘You _smoked_ me in thyme.’

‘Smoked,’ Hannibal had confirmed, lifting a perfect cube of skewered leg from the display. ‘Glazed, and served on a sugar cane quill.’ He’d set the portion on Abel’s plate, alongside the vine-leaf tomatoes and leaned down to add in a purr, ‘You’ll be falling off the bone.’

‘Well, of _course_.’ Abel’s fear-drenched tongue had run away with him, making him snappy. He’d fumbled to find his way back to a semblance of control; an illusion, but an interesting challenge for Hannibal, and so permitted. ‘And, with these rarified dishes you so carefully prepare,’ the broken Alpha had continued, ‘do we all _taste_ different?’

Hannibal, sitting himself beside his dinner guest, had unfolded his napkin and laid it over his lap to protect his suit.

‘Everyone has their flavor.’

‘Cannibalism was standard behavior among our ancestors,’ Abel had announced, as though imparting a peal of wisdom. ‘The missing link was only missing because we _ate_ him.’

Hannibal, however, had merely cut into his meat and smiled at the other man.

‘This isn’t cannibalism,’ he’d replied. ‘It’s only cannibalism if we’re equals.’

_And you will never be my equal._

What that, he’d placed the forkful of flesh onto his tongue and chewed, savoring the balanced flavors and moist texture.

Abel had looked quite nauseated at the sight.

‘It’s only cannibalism if you eat _me_ ,’ he’d said, arguing to be acknowledged an equal. ‘But you just feel this is the natural order of things. Everybody gets ate.’

‘Be he fat or be he lean,’ Hannibal had agreed, reaching for his wine – a fruity Shiraz to balance the heavy, sweet flavor of the meat.

‘With my last leg standing next to me,’ Abel had mused, clearly allowing himself the impulse to talk _incessantly_ as a coping mechanism for his fear; ‘I _should_ still wrestle with the urges to fight or flee.’

‘It’s called “terminal restlessness”,’ Hannibal had advised, watching the other Alpha’s veins stand proud in his neck, his pulse racing beneath the pale skin. ‘The body fills with adrenaline and feels compelled to go-go-go.’ He’d grinned, his irises flashing red, and Abel had huffed in frustration.

‘“Go-go-go”?’ He’d jerked his head towards the leg on the serving trolley. ‘I’ve already got up and _gone_.’ He’d gestured to the plate. ‘ _This_ is _posthumous.’_

‘You’re not dead yet, Abel,’ Hannibal had warned, allowing a little of his irritation to sharpen his voice. ‘You still have to eat.’

_I remember thinking; is this how it will feel to reprimand our children at the table? Will I have to chivvy and coax them into finishing their dinner?_

‘No…’ Abel had shaken his head. ‘I don’t.’ As Hannibal had continued eating, he’d picked up his cube of meat by the quill and inspected it from upside down, mouth twisting in distaste. ‘At this point, there’s absolutely _nothing_ I _have_ to do.’

He’d dumped the dish back onto the china and grimaced, wiping sticky fingers clean on his bandages.

‘But, I shouldn’t _spoil_ the fairytale, should I?’ A blank stare had accompanied that, and Hannibal’s heart had soared at the despair to which his victim had begun to sink, seeking comfort in the desperate belief that it was all imaginary. ‘You and your little gingerbread-house family…’

 _My gingerbread-house family… The perfect Omega and two perfect children… Abigail and our baby_ …

A year ago, Hannibal had set his cutlery aside, clasped his hands together and regarded Abel Gideon coolly. Tonight, he regards his own reflection with the same dispassion.

‘Let it be a fairytale, then,’ he murmurs, reaching up to adjust his bowtie and straightening the cufflinks of his shirt. ‘Once upon a time…’

***

The ballroom is filled with the jaunty, charismatic notes of a string quartet playing Beethoven, and dozens of pairs of dancing Alphas and Omegas fill the floor. The prosecco flows freely and spirits soar, for the _Palazzo Capponi_ has gathered here tonight to share the news on whether or not their latest applicant will join their ranks as Curator.

Hannibal, resplendent in his tuxedo, holds Will close as they twirl across the marble tiles. Will can’t help but look down every few steps, muttering the one-two-three beat under his breath to keep from tripping or stepping on his Alpha’s toes. His post-pregnancy body is as trim as ever and his waist is accentuated by the cut of the Omegan tuxedo, though his crest is hidden away beneath the collar, unlike most of the other claiming scars in the room.

‘Just breathe,’ Hannibal murmurs, grinning at him when Will’s eyes flash gold and he glares at being spun around and brought back in close. ‘You’re doing perfectly, _mylimasis_.’

‘Should’ve taken more lessons,’ Will grumbles, but he can’t help feeling a flicker of pride as he matches Hannibal step for step in the next verse, keeping up with him until the very last second when the Alpha then decides to spin, turn and bend him backwards over his arm.

Hannibal openly laughs when Will fights the dramatic gesture, and quickly rights him before the struggling man makes him lose his grip and drop him. Will gets his feet under him and gives Hannibal a shove, his cheeks flushed red and mouth a pinched line.

‘ _Bellissimo_ ,’ Hannibal purrs, gazing with open adoration at his fierce, furious mate. The compliment, and the heat in his Alpha’s eyes when he stares at him, has Will blushing again, though he calms himself down and settles for straightening his shirt and jacket. He shakes his head when Hannibal collects a glass of wine from a passing waiter and offers it to him, and takes half a step back so that the taller man is in front of him when the _Capponi_ scholars approach, en-masse.

‘Dr Fell.’ Professor Sogliato’s black eyes flash red and he gives Hannibal an oily smile, barely able to contain his distaste for the other Alpha. ‘I hope you translate as well as you waltz.’ He reaches for Will’s hand and bows over it, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. ‘Mr Fell.’e

‘Our new appointee was confirmed by the board,’ Mr Albizzi announces, flanked by the remaining members of the _Capponi_ , each of them Alphas of various rank and status. ‘After _close_ questioning.’ He smiles, pointedly, at Sogliato, but the younger Alpha is unashamed of his rebuke. e

‘You’ve examined him in medieval Italian,’ he says, holding Hannibal’s gaze without fear. ‘And I will not deny his language is…’ He looks the other man up and down. ‘ _Admirable_.’

‘Thank you,’ Hannibal says, his dark shadow bristling at the hostility in Sogliato’s tone as the smaller Alpha adds, rudely,

‘For a _straniero_.’

 _Foreigner. Outsider. Lesser Alpha_.

The meaning is clear, and Will places a calming hand on Hannibal’s elbow, attempting to soothe him as he feels the flash of fury at being so openly insulted by his peers.

Sogliato, it seems, is intent on digging his own grave as he continues,

‘Are you familiar with the personalities of pre- _Renaissance_ Florence?’ He smiles coolly, even as his eyes blaze crimson. ‘I think not.’ He turns to his colleagues and adds, loudly, ‘Dr Fell might hold in his hand, his _non-Italian_ hand, a note from Dante Alghieri himself. Would he recognize it?’

As Hannibal sips prosecco, he focuses all of his attention on the vanilla-musk scent of his Omega and the fizz of bubbles on his tongue, allowing Sogliato his little farce.

Sogliato smirks at him again and finishes, condescendingly,

‘I think not.’

 _You’re not one of us_.

‘Professor Sogliato,’ Will says, stepping forwards to distract the other man before Hannibal launches himself at his throat, then and there, in front of everyone. ‘Would you do me the honor of a dance?’

 _I’ll step on his toes,_ he tells Hannibal, but his Alpha is too enraged to catch the thought.

‘Of course.’ Soglioto takes Will by the arm and begins leading him away, purring softly at his own wit, when Hannibal’s voice rings out from behind them.

_‘Allegro mi sembrava Amor, tenendo meo core in mano.’_

Sogliato pauses, turning back in surprise at Hannibal’s daring, his confidence, and the skill with which he speaks the Italian words.

 _‘E ne le braccia avea Madonna involta in un drappo dormendo.’_ Hannibal turns to the assembled crowd, continuing, _‘Poi la svegliava, e d’esto core ardeno, lei paventosa umilmente pascea.’_

 _Pompous ass_ , Will warns, raising an eyebrow at Hannibal as his Alpha steps closer to them, the words aimed directly at Sogliato, in dramatic rebuke of his denunciation.

_‘Appreso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.’_

A little silence follows, and Hannibal smiles around at his audience.

‘Dante’s first sonnet,’ he informs them, accepting a bow of admiration from Mr Albizzi. ‘It fascinated Cavalcanti. The eating of the heart is a powerful image.’

_And an even more powerful act of dominance._

Will eyes him warily, sensing the dark, playful anger bubbling with his Alpha. It’s the sort of anger that makes Hannibal reckless.

Sogliato bristles at the insult to his intellect.

‘If he’s such an _expert_ on Dante, then let him _lecture_ on Dante,’ he snaps. ‘To the Studiolo.’

Hannibal turns to Mr Albizzi, shrugging casually at the challenge.

‘Let him face them,’ Sogliato adds, coldly smug. ‘ _Extempore_.’

‘I’m happy to sing for my supper,’ Hannibal replies, and the echo of Grutas’s words sends a chill down Will’s spine.

_He’ll sing for his supper, but he’ll make you suffer for it afterwards._

‘Professor.’ Will tugs on the Alpha’s arm, leading him away before anymore damage can be done to their life in Florence.

Hannibal, pleased with himself over his victory, sips his wine and turns back to the scholars to accept his applause. He’ll allow Will to distract Professor Sogliato with one dance, and then they shall spend the rest of the evening together. They have the babysitter until midnight, after all, and he wants to take full advantage of the time alone with his mate.

_If only it were real._

***

The fantasy continues into the evening. After the ball, Hannibal and Will take a taxi back to their apartment; a glittering array of rooms with views of the River Arno from every eastern window. They pay the babysitter a handful of euros, drop gentle kisses onto Abigail’s and the baby’s foreheads, and then retire into the living room to sip brandy and share the silence with each other.

‘We are among the palaces built six _hundred_ years ago,’ Hannibal murmurs, gazing out at the beautiful architecture of his beloved city; ‘by the merchant princes, the king-makers and the connivers of Renaissance Florence.’

‘There are connivers of modern Florence,’ Will replies, stepping up beside him and handing him a glass of _grappa_. He has removed his jacket and tie, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to expose the creamy, tanned skin of his forearms.

Hannibal smiles and looks past him to complement his appearance within the room. The apartment is lavish, with frescoed walls and ceilings of cherubs and devils, ornate brass-work and windows leaded from centuries past.

‘I’ve found a peace here I would preserve,’ he admits, sipping his drink. ‘I’ve killed hardly anybody during our residence.’

‘You created a vacancy at the _Palazzo Capponi_ ,’ Will points out, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. ‘By removing the former Curator.’

‘A simple process,’ Hannibal brags. ‘Requiring a few second’s work on the old man. And,’ he adds, as an afterthought; ‘a modest outlay for two bags of cement.’

‘You no longer have _ethical_ concerns, Hannibal.’ Will shakes his head and sips his own drink, relishing the ability to quiet his mind with alcohol once again. The forced sobriety of his pregnancy had been wearing. ‘You have _aesthetical_ ones.’

‘Ethics become aesthetics,’ Hannibal muses, tipping his head back to admire the painting on the ceiling above them.

‘You seem more interested in _making_ appearances than maintaining them,’ Will growls, turning back to his Alpha with glowing eyes. He’s protecting their family, after all. If Hannibal makes too much of a scene, the FBI will find them and their fantasy life together will be ruined.

‘If this is about my position at the _Palazzo_ ,’ Hannibal says, ‘once the path was cleared, I won the job fairly. On my merits.’

Will rolls his eyes and set his brandy aside. He unbuttons the rest of his shirt, dragging the zipper of his pants down with a sound that is too loud in the suddenly brittle silence between them.

_The blade went deep._

‘Yes,’ Will sneers, ‘even the most _contentious_ Florentines can’t resist the verse of Dante ringing off the frescoed walls.’ He heads for the bathroom, swaying slightly, his head fuzzier than he’d expected.

_Has Hannibal drugged me again, or am I just not used to alcohol after the pregnancy?_

Hannibal watches him go, his eyes flashing red as he replies,

‘One contentious Florentine _can_.’

Will perches on the edge of the tub, turning the fish-shaped handles to fill it to the brim with hot water. He can sense Hannibal behind him, lingering in the doorway, brandy snifter still in hand and eyes locked onto the strip of skin exposed between Will’s shirt collar and hairline.

_If I hadn’t Cut you, you’d still have a crest there, now._

‘Have you given serious thought to _eating_ Professor Sogliato?’ Will asks, tugging Hannibal back into the fantasy.

Hannibal considers the question before he replies,

‘My killing Sogliato now would not preserve the peace.’

‘Your _peace_ is without morality,’ Will argues, adding scented oil to the water, but Hannibal merely shrugs at him, knowing he is reflected in the big mirror above the sink.

‘Morality doesn’t exist,’ he says. ‘Only morale.’

‘How you feel today…’ Will scoffs, disdainful of the Alpha’s hedonistic lifestyle. As he checks the water temperature again, Hannibal tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

‘How do _you_ feel today?’ he asks, testing his mate’s loyalty.

_You failed once before… Don’t fail me again._

Will pauses, giving the question due consideration as he toes off his shoes.

‘I still believe I’m in conscious control of my actions,’ he replies, and throws Hannibal a flirtatious, furious glance over his shoulder as he turns the taps off. ‘Given our _history_ that’s a good day.’

He stands up and sheds the rest of his outfit; shirt, tie, pants, boxers and socks, all abandoned on the tiled floor. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes on his back, locked onto the ragged scar where his crest used to be, and he shivers as he dips each foot into the scalding water, sinking down until it covers him to his jaw.

Hannibal wanders away, leaving Will alone with nothing but the drip of water and the beating of his own heart. In the ensuing silence, his isolation becomes more and more oppressive, and Will’s mind begins to wander, drifting away on the eddies of steam curling from the surface of the bath.

_Is this real? Am I really here?_

_He cut me deep._

Will floats in nothingness, anchorless and lost… It’s pleasant for a moment, to be utterly without consciousness, and then the water closes in on him, tight as a strap. Will’s neck flares with pain, even as razors slide through his skull.

_I’m still in conscious control of my actions… Today is a good day… You were supposed to leave… Hannibal…_

‘We’re losing him…’ A distant voice… Male… Worried… It cuts through the dream and Will becomes certain he can hear the blip of a heart monitor. ‘10ccs of Phenobarbital… Increase the nuchal pressure… Will, can you hear me? Will? Can you –?’

Will takes a deep breath and dips beneath the surface of the bath. Water flows up his nose, into his ears… It batters his eyelids, drowning him. He feels like he’s dying; his lungs are burning, too small for his body. His stomach cramps and all he tastes is blood.

 _There was so much blood_ …

As Bedelia Du Maurier jerks upright in her bath of water, gasping for air after submerging herself in an unconscious attempt to commit suicide, Hannibal sinks onto a chaise lounge in the bedroom, cradling his burning throat. His legs are shaking, his knees weak; he feels as wrecked as he did the night that he Cut Will.

He’d indulged himself a little fantasy; pretending his companion for the evening had been his Omegan mate, rather than sleek, well-bred Bedelia. Now, as the dream collapses, his bones ache and his throat sears with hot agony; a long strip where his Alphan crest used to be.

_I miss him._

There are no children in the apartment. No baby in the nursery; no teenager in the second bedroom. The vanilla-scented musk lingering in the air is the perfume Hannibal bought for Bedelia; he insists she wear it, for as long as she accompanies him. A reminder of his Omega’s scent, but she is no substitute for Will.

 _Love makes fools of us all_ , Hannibal thinks. He forces himself to gulp back the rest of his brandy, refusing to surrender to the emotions wringing such vile physical sensations from his body. He severed his connections to Will and their life together when he severed the crest on his Omega’s nape, and he’ll be _damned_ if he’s going to dwell on it, now.

Another brandy might help. That, and a hypodermic needle filled with tranquilizer.

Anything to stop this _feeling_.

***

When Jack Crawford had brought Bedelia Du Maurier in for questioning, he’d been both impressed and repulsed by her poise.

 _So,_ he’d thought, gazing at the blonde-haired Alpha across the table from him; _this is Hannibal Lecter’s psychiatrist_.

‘If you think you’re about to catch Hannibal,’ Bedelia had said, her voice smooth as molasses, even as her blue eyes flashed red with fear. ‘It’s because he _wants_ you to think that. Don’t fool yourself into thinking he’s not in control of what’s happening.’

_He’s always in control… That’s why he always wins._

She goes home the moment she’s released. Rain has drenched the roads and driveway, and the windows of the house glisten with drops of water, even now, hours after the storm.

Bedelia’s key is the only thing to have unlocked the front door, but she still pauses when she crosses the threshold, her spine tingling and all the fine hairs standing on end.

_He’s here._

She takes a deep breath, and then another, her Rut-red eyes picking out the shapes of furniture in the gloom. Nothing down here has been disturbed, but Hannibal’s scent hangs in the still air, coppery with blood.

 _He’s not come to kill me,_ she thinks, going into her sitting room, where the couches and tables are draped with plastic sheets, and her decanter remains, untouched, on the silver serving tray. _He’d already been waiting if he was._

Bedelia pours herself three fingers of whiskey, the finest single malt, and takes a large drink before collecting her gun and following her former patient’s scent upstairs.

_In the bedroom._

Washing blood away is easy, but the scents still cling to him.

Hannibal tilts his face into the shower spray, clawing off the dead and crusted skin of his crest, the scar in its wake an abomination of silky smooth flesh.

 _I expected to have more emotions_ , he thinks, scrubbing his bruised and battered body with Bedelia’s sponge, her jasmine soap an irritating assault on his nose. _But I don’t feel anything._

Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, his connection to Will was abnormal; unexpected and unintentional. Quickly severed and now, seemingly, forgotten.

 _It’s what makes me such a successful hunter_.

Once every drop of blood has been washed down the drain, Hannibal switches off the shower and steps out into the foggy bathroom. His injuries will heal; his ribs are bruised, not broken, and he’s already realigned his nose. He assesses the damage with a clinician’s dispassion. Catalogues the effects and deems himself suitable for travel.

He will survive. He always survives.

As he steps out of the bathroom, dabbing at his eyebrows with the towel, Hannibal hears the familiar click of a gun being cocked, and smells the sharp, acrid tang of a scared Alpha.

 _Bedelia_.

His former psychiatrist perches on the end of her bed, dressed in her skirt, blouse and coat from earlier, a whiskey in one hand and a revolver in the other.

Hannibal takes a final breath of his own scent – the last of Will’s blood still clinging to his pores – and then looks over at his former psychiatrist with a sigh.

‘May I get dressed?’ he asks, unashamedly naked before her.

Bedelia’s eyes flash red with hunger, quickly tempered by nerves, and she swallows before replying,

‘You may.’

Hannibal folds the towel, doing nothing to hide his physique from her.

‘What have you _done_ , Hannibal?’ Bedelia asks, resignedly, and Hannibal shrugs as he pulls on the boxer-briefs from the bag he had previously stored in Bedelia’s kitchen pantry.

_One can never have too many hiding places._

‘I’ve taken off my person suit,’ he replies, snapping the elastic waistband into position.

‘You let them see you,’ Bedelia says, and she understands the gravity of the revelation. Hannibal sighs through his aching nose as he bends again to retrieve a pair of trousers.

‘I let them see enough.’

_And it was too much for them all. Even Will. My sweet Will. I really thought he was different._

‘How does it feel?’ Bedelia asks, gentle over the clink of the belt buckle. ‘Being seen?’

_She knows… She knows Will rejected me._

Hannibal swallows, his throat uncomfortably tight, and growls,

‘Well, you’re in no position to ask, Dr Du Maurier.’ He smirks coldly. ‘You ended our patient-psychiatrist relationship.’

‘I lacked the appropriate skills to continue your therapy,’ Bedelia explains, her brow creased. She sees him, now, for who he truly is; there is no one who could help him. He isn’t lost to the darkness; he _is_ darkness himself.

‘I never found you to be lacking,’ Hannibal says, easing his bruised and battered body into a fine cotton shirt. He winces at the beating he’s taken, the pain made all the more unbearable by the gaping hole where his heart used to be.

_Will cut that out of me, as surely as I cut our future from his womb._

‘I’m sorry I didn’t provide you with a suitable substitute for therapy,’ Bedelia says, sharp eyes noting the angry scar on Hannibal’s exposed throat; the scar of a former Alphan crest. She swallows. ‘Is Will Graham… still alive?’

Hannibal focuses on buttoning his shirt, his fingers trembling.

‘Will Graham was not a suitable substitute for therapy,’ he replies, and Bedelia smells the salt of his distress at the question. Still, she needs to know. She needs to know exactly what she’s dealing with.

‘What was he?’ she asks, and Hannibal, as expected, skirts the question he doesn’t like.

‘Is this professional curiosity?’ he asks, avoiding the trauma of his emotions as surely as he continues to avoid the trauma of his sister’s murder, all those years ago.

Bedelia sighs. He is not further along now than he was when they first met, almost ten years ago.

‘Almost entirely.’

Hannibal looks at her, watching her as she watches him. They assess each other; the hunter and its prey… His eyes take on the same dead, flat look as before, and he walks closer, finished with buttoning his shirt.

‘Do you trust me?’ he asks, staring at her with his veil down and monster revealed. Bedelia smiles at her own shiver of repulsion.

‘Not entirely,’ she admits, and Hannibal nods with a smile. He buttons his cuffs as he continues,

‘Are you taking into consideration my beliefs about your intentions?’

_Are you gambling your safety on my need to flee?_

‘My intentions?’ Bedelia raises an eyebrow, feigning ignorance, and Hannibal scoffs.

‘Motivation can be little more than lucid greed,’ he explains, and Bedelia chokes on a frightened laugh.

_‘Greed?’_

_It’s greedy to want to protect myself? Save my own life?_

‘And blind optimism?’ she adds.

‘You’re optimistic I won’t kill you,’ Hannibal says. Bedelia, to confirm, uncocks the gun and sets it on the bed beside her.

Hannibal stares at her for another moment, his expression unreadable, and then he turns and walks back into the bathroom to get ready.

 _He won’ kill me,_ Bedelia thinks, taking a shuddering gulp of whiskey at so narrowly avoiding death, again. _Not yet._

***

It rains for the next three days. Hannibal goes to work, leaving Will at home with Abigail and the baby, free to do whatever they please, as long as Will goes for the bi-weekly food shop.

Dressed in dark jeans, boots and a fine blue coat, he takes the tube and then walks across the damp square of the Piazza del Duomo, his face shielded from surveillance cameras by his umbrella. His destination, Hannibal has instructed, is the little artisan deli, _Vera Dal 1926,_ which sits, tucked away, down a cobbled side street off the Piazza.

_Only the finest for our family, mylimasis._

The brass bell tinkles above the door, announcing his arrival, and Will shakes rain off the brolly as he folds it down at the doorstep. He wanders around slowly, taking in the pheasants and other game birds lying, freshly killed, on the counters, waiting to be plucked and matured in the back; the bowls of fresh grapes and glistening olives on the counter, the array of cheeses and cured meats…

The shop is small but the prices are steep; every item is a luxury, which is why Hannibal chooses to shop here and few other places for the ingredients he requires for their meals.

The order is very specific, and Will has it memorized.

‘ _Due bottiglie di B_ _â_ _tard-Montrachet e tartufi bianchi, per favore,’_ he says, his Italian flawless; just the way Hannibal taught him.

Two bottles of _B_ _â_ _tard-Montrachet_ and a dozen white truffles. It has been the same every week since they arrived in Florence; it compliments the oysters and acorns of Will’s post-pregnancy diet.

The shopkeeper, a kindly, elderly Alpha, smiles gently at him as he packages the precious items into a tissue-lined paper bag, and Will offers him a grimace in return. He loathes the extravagance of the shop, the pomp and ritual of the sale, and he leaves as soon as he can; eager to return to the apartment to spend time with his family.

 _At least_ , Hannibal thinks, as he pores over old manuscripts at his desk in the Palazzo Capponi; _that’s what I like to believe._

He would much rather have his Omega running errands for him than Bedelia, though her Italian is, undoubtedly, far superior. Sitting amongst the cruel and twisted iron of Medieval torture instruments, he immerses himself instead in Dante’s early works, finding additional reference to the eating of the burning heart, and other sonnets of lost love.

 _My own heart burned for you, Will_. _Now it is little more than a charred husk._

The room is beautiful; vaulted ceilings painted with heavenly scenes, a mahogany floor and marble balconies. Glass cases rise from the ground, just like the dunking tanks of the cells inside Baltimore’s Insane Asylum’s visiting room.

_Irony can be cruel._

It is only after his day is done, his notes complete and his essay for Friday night written, that Hannibal leaves for home. He buttons the double-breasted jacket of his sandstone-colored suit and skips down the stairs to the foyer, his briefcase clasped beneath his left arm, face swiftly upturned to the dying rays of the evening sunshine.

_If only Will was waiting for me at home._

The clouds soon reassert their dominance, however, just in time for a familiar, British-accented voice to hail him from across the courtyard.

‘Hello!’ Anthony Dimmond waves to him, quickly abandoning the elderly Alpha to whom he had been speaking. ‘Bonjour!’

The Omega, still wearing a pattern scarf and his navy frock coat, shakes enthusiastically with Hannibal, frowning and smiling in bemusement at the sight of him. Hannibal can feel how stiff his face has become; he hadn’t expected to run into Mr Dimmond again, and certainly not so soon.

_Yes, if only Will was waiting for me at home._

‘Mr Jakov, isn’t it?’ Anthony continues. ‘We met in Paris a few months back. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, it’s just here I was and then there you were…’ He chuckles at himself and tucks his hands inside his trouser pockets. ‘I never forget a face. _Especially_ a handsome one.’

‘Anthony Dimmond.’ Hannibal inclines his head with a purr and a flash of crimson eyes; a reward for the compliment, and Anthony grins at the praise.

‘Nice to be remembered,’ he says, his blue eyes warming to gold. Hannibal smiles, all charm now that he has recovered.

‘You’re hard to forget.’

_Harder still, it seems, to avoid._

‘What are you doing in Florence?’ Anthony asks, frowning once more in puzzlement. ‘Are you working with Roman?’

‘Dr Fell?’ Hannibal feigns ignorance, wondering how much the wayward Omega knows.

How dangerous he is.

‘Mm.’ Anthony nods his head. ‘I heard he took an appointment at the Capponi Library.’

_I did._

‘Yes,’ Hannibal confirms. ‘He’s the new curator and translator at the Palazzo Capponi.’

Anthony’s smile becomes ever more mischievous.

‘Evidently, the last one eloped with another Alpha’s omega, or their money, or both.’

‘That’s the commonly-held belief,’ Hannibal agrees. It’s not true, of course; the Alpha in question is dead and buried, rotting all but for a few choice cuts, which Hannibal has since cooked and eaten. ‘You just missed Roman,’ he lies, and Anthony pretends to grimace.

‘Oh, did I?’ He sighs. ‘I was hoping to take the piss.’ Another grin, warming his whole face, and Hannibal’s heart skips a beat.

_You remind me so much of Will. What he could have been, had he not chosen to live his life amongst the shadows of monsters._

‘Spare the piss for the time being,’ he says, wondering at his own impulsion as he adds, ‘If you’re free, my mate and I would love to have you for dinner.’

Anthony Dimmond smiles, and slips his arm casually through the crook of Hannibal’s elbow to fall into step beside him.

‘I’d _love_ to.’

***

Hannibal had had a few days with Dr Gideon before Will’s return from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. After removing and serving his legs, he had amputated his arm, hanging it by the wrist with a string of garlic and sweet berries in the gently moistened tank of his cochlear garden in the townhouse basement.

Forcing Dr Gideon to watch, immobile in his electric wheelchair, with his only remaining limb to work the control, Hannibal had bathed the arm in sweet honey and almond milk; a feast for the snails.

When it came time to harvest them, they had resisted the tug on their shells, but Hannibal had simply plucked harder and the creatures came away from the cured flesh with a wet pop.

‘Listen,’ he’d said, his eyes flashing crimson at the resulting wave of fear from the other Alpha. ‘They prefer eating in company.’

_As do I. But Will is coming home soon. My family; united._

‘I’ve kept cochlear gardens since I was a young man,’ he’d explained. ‘Fattening snails on herbs and vine leaves. Like all of us, what they eat greatly influences and enhances their flavor.’

Behind him, reflected in the glass, he’d seen Abel frown.

‘So, when I’m not busy _eating myself_ ,’ the other Alpha had said; ‘you wish me to be eating oysters, drinking sweet wine and snacking on acorns… All to make me _tastier?’_

Hannibal had thrown him a wicked smile over his shoulder, fangs bared and irises blood-red.

‘Oh, _yes_ ,’ he’d purred. ‘And you are making _them_ tastier.’

‘And I you,’ Abel had replied, trying to rankle him. To regain a sliver of control over a hopeless situation. ‘Imagine what _you_ must taste like… Won’t be long until someone’s taking a _bite_ out of _you_.’

_If Will knows anything, he’ll bite me… Bond me… To save himself… He may even kill and eat me…_

Repressing a shiver of pleasure at the idea, Hannibal had merely smiled and glanced back down at his bowl of _scutellastra cochlear_ snails.

‘You’re becoming brighter, Abel,’ he’d commented. ‘Dying hasn’t dulled you one bit.’

‘The _snails_ are certainly having a lovely experience,’ Abel had grumbled. ‘Fattened on me in a red-wine marinade… They have no idea they’re going to be eaten. _We_ do.’

‘We all die in the end,’ Hannibal had mused, carefully applying the marinade to the fingertips and palm of the hand. ‘Death is only a waste if it has no benefit.’

Abel had hummed, and, then, after a moment of silence, turned his wheelchair around to follow Hannibal from the room.

‘Who will benefit from _your_ death, I wonder?’

***

‘I’ve brought a guest to dinner,’ Hannibal announces, sauntering into the apartment with Anthony Dimmond on his heels. ‘Anthony, welcome to our home.’

‘What a wonderful family,’ Anthony says, smiling at Abigail holding the baby, and then, after a pause, at Will, who watches warily from the other side of the dining table. ‘I didn’t realize you had children.’

‘We adopted Abigail,’ Hannibal says, giving his daughter’s shoulder a quick squeeze before stroking the baby’s cheeks. ‘And _this_ little one is our newest addition.’

‘Have you two been together long?’ Anthony asks, shrugging out of his coat and handing it to Boris. ‘You certainly have the air of a couple well settled into family life.’

There is a current of tension beneath the cheery words. A question of his place at their table.

_Am I a welcome guest, or something else?_

‘Feels like forever,’ Will mutters, moving to take the baby from Abigail, rocking gently and purring before he looks up and asks, ‘How long have _you two_ known each other?’

Hannibal quirks an eyebrow at Will, and says, deliberately,

‘Mr Dimmond and I met in France a few months ago. He’s here to see Dr Fell.’

_Dr Fell… The man you murdered… The man you’re currently impersonating…_

Will’s chest tightens and his belly cramps. He frowns, feeling like he’s floating inside Hannibal’s head for just a moment, anchorless and lost, before he swiftly returns to the sensations of his own body. His heavy limbs and dry mouth… Rumbling belly and cracked lips.

‘Dr Fell?’ he whispers. ‘I… er…’

‘It was a _dreadfully_ dull party,’ Anthony says, drawing closer as Hannibal leaves them alone to hang the coat in the hallway. ‘Boris saved me from an evening of complete boredom.’

‘You’ll never be bored with him around,’ Will agrees, somewhat waspishly, and Anthony chuckles at the other man’s acerbic tongue. He can see why Boris has mated with him; fine features, Renaissance hair and a sharp mind… He’d keep any Alpha on his toes.

_He must be an absolute spitfire in the bedroom._

‘Anthony Dimmond,’ Anthony says, officially introducing himself with a handshake. ‘Fellow at Cambridge.’

‘Garrett Jakov,’ Will lies, adjusting the baby to shake with him. ‘This is Daniel.’

‘Daniel… Like the prophet.’ Anthony peers over the edge of the blanket at the sleeping baby and purrs softly. ‘Gorgeous fellow.’

‘Abigail, would you put him down for us?’ Will asks, handing the baby back to her. ‘Are you joining us for dinner?’

Abigail settles Daniel into the crook of her arm, shushing him when he murmurs, and then looks up at them both.

‘Er, well, actually, I was going to go out,’ she admits. ‘To meet some friends.’

‘Of course,’ Hannibal says, before Will has a chance to argue. ‘Be back before midnight.’

 _And don’t kill anyone_ , Will thinks sourly, watching her leave with his child. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose before gulping back his second whiskey of the night. The alcohol is good; it numbs the ache in his abdomen and makes him forget to question how he’s here, why he’s here… How any of this can be real and yet feel like a dream.

‘Now,’ Hannibal says, rubbing his hands together and grinning at the two Omegas before him. ‘Who’s hungry?’

***

The blade slips between the edges, nicking soft muscle and spilling liquid to the floor. Will watches, feeling queasy but unable to remember why he’s so disturbed by the image, as his Alpha cuts open a dozen oysters.

Hannibal pours the saltwater away, presenting the delicacy on perfectly balanced cubes of ice. Will already has a portion, but he may want more, and Hannibal is nothing if not an attentive mate.

Scooping the sweet-wine soaked oyster meat onto his fork, Will dips his head to eat it without making a mess, acutely aware of Anthony’s fascinated smile on his face.

‘So, er… how well do you know the Fells?’ he asks, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t want Hannibal to kill this man; Anthony seems nice and he’s an innocent in this. His only crime is knowing a previous victim.

_Don’t ruin our life here._

‘As well as anybody,’ Anthony replies, shrugging. ‘Which’d be “not really”.’ He grins and lifts a goblet of red wine to his lips. ‘Is Lachlan a friend of yours?’

_No… He and Roman are dead, and we’ve taken their identities as our own._

Will shoots a single, disparaging look towards Hannibal, and then turns his attention back to Anthony.

‘Not really.’

‘Well, I’d be surprised to hear if he had one,’ Anthony says, his eyes flickering gold. ‘We share a mutual detestation.’ At Will’s raised eyebrow, he explains, ‘He disapproves of my disapproval.’

 _Of Roman’s harem of Omegas… His weakened bonds to them all… Gabrielle, his Omega-secondi, who disappeared from Paris shortly after the party… Probably Cut and ready to meet a new Alpha with better prospects._ _‘Megs like her are all the same._

Hannibal, as if sensing the thought, glances up from cutting oysters and asks, with a smile,

‘What do you disapprove of?’

‘Roman, mainly,’ Anthony replies, unashamed of his opinion. It is refreshing in a member of his caste. Too many Omegas are downtrodden and silent. ‘Lachlan just isn’t bright enough to see that I’m equal parts jealous and intimidated.’

He grins, his scent thickening, and adds, as if sharing a secret with them both,

‘Roman does, of course. How he _loves_ to strike fear.’

‘Dante wrote that fear is almost as bitter as death,’ Hannibal says, bringing the tray of oysters around for Will to take another helping.

‘Dante wasn’t _dead_ when he wrote it,’ Will replies, scowling up at his mate as the Alpha serves him another portion of mollusks.

_And neither am I._

Hannibal smirks at him, and asks, feigning innocent curiosity as he walks around to take his place across from Will at the table,

‘Are you travelling alone, Anthony?’

‘The only way I travel,’ Anthony replies, grinning at Boris and Garrett’s verbal sparring.

‘Roman is speaking to the _Studiolo_ on Friday, on Dante,’ Hannibal says, folding his tie down before picking up his knife and fork. ‘You should come.’

_Don’t… Hannibal, please don’t…_

Will glances up, his hand trembling as he holds another forkful of oyster flesh ready to consume. He hates the way his Alpha is toying with the Omega; perhaps, especially because it _is_ an Omega.

‘Sounds appropriately hellish,’ Anthony teases, unfolding his napkin ready to eat his second course; tender beef liver in a red-wine marinade. He frowns when he realizes that Will is having two courses of fish instead of moving onto the beef. ‘Are you avoiding meats?’

Hannibal glances up, daring him to say anything, and Will’s heart lodges at the base of his throat.

_He’s angry that I don’t trust him… He’s going to hurt the baby…_

He swallows nervously, and then looks at Anthony.

‘I’m, er… trying not to eat anything with a central nervous system,’ he replies, eating another mouthful.

Anthony sniffs a laugh at the plate.

‘Oysters, acorns and Marsala,’ he says. ‘That’s what ancient Romans would feed animals to improve their flavor.’

Will pauses, trying to chew the suddenly tasteless, rubbery texture on his tongue.

_Improving my flavor… He’s going to eat me after all. When? How long am I safe? How long until my flavor has ripened just enough?_

He meets Hannibal’s gaze and the Alpha smiles, irises warmed through with burgundy.

_You already taste perfect to me, Will._

‘My mate has a very… _sophisticated_ palate,’ Will replies, fixing his golden eyes somewhere near Anthony’s chin. ‘He’s very _particular_ about how I taste.’

Anthony stares, shocked at the innuendo, and looks to Hannibal for confirmation. Hannibal grins and shrugs, and Anthony chuckles, turning back to Will with a deep purr.

‘Is it that kind of party?’ he teases, and Will looks up, locking eyes with Hannibal, whose energy is playful and boyish, exuberant in his little ploy.

_Is it? Do you want to fuck him before you kill him?_

‘It might be that kind of party,’ Hannibal says, and Will glares at him.

‘No,’ he growls. ‘It really _isn’t_.’

‘Shame,’ Anthony says, looking from Alpha to Omega. ‘You were both suddenly so _fascinating_.’

 _Don’t play with your food_ , Will thinks, trying his best to convey his disdain for Hannibal’s sadistic games. _It’s rude._

 _It’s rude to disappoint a guest_ , Hannibal returns, and they both take a sip of their wine, arguing silently whilst Anthony watches, curious, between them.

‘Am I missing something?’ the Omega asks, gesturing to them both with his fork. ‘Your energy is fascinating.’

‘You wouldn’t be the first person we’ve invited to join us,’ Hannibal explains, eyes still locked onto Will.

‘And that never ended _well_ ,’ Will snaps, reminding him of all the death and pain they’ve caused.

_Matthew… Randall… Alana… Abigail._

‘Where there’s life, there’s possibility,’ Hannibal says, taking another bite of Lydia Fell’s liver. ‘Experience shapes us; makes us greater than who we were.’

‘And curiosity killed the cat,’ Will mutters, stabbing at a roasted acorn and crunching it defiantly. ‘Some things are better left unspoken.’

‘Bluebeard’s wife,’ Hannibal murmurs. He gazes at his beloved, maroon eyes soft and brow furrowed in pain. ‘Don’t you want to know what lies beyond the door, Will?’

Will swallows back a whine of longing and looks up. He sees Hannibal’s face, his true face; blank eyes, black skin, skeletally thin and horned… The wendigo of his nightmares, starving and desperate for sensation… A void of humanity, sucking all light and life into it, with no hope of escape.

_I loved you… And you broke me._

‘I already do.’

***

‘ _Buonasera_ ,’ Anthony says, waving goodbye to Hannibal at the end of the evening and stepping outside into the hallway of the apartment building.

‘ _Buonasera_ ,’ Hannibal replies, watching him leave before shutting and bolting the doors behind him. Then, once they are alone, he turns around to look at Will, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, head tilted and face sharply expectant.

‘You let him go,’ Will says, leaning back against a marble pillar, burgundy shirtsleeves rolled up exposing his tanned forearms.

Hannibal narrows his eyes.

‘What would you have me do?’ he asks, and Will sighs, looking off to the side. When Hannibal goes to walk past him, however, he grabs for the front of his shirt, visible above the top of his waistcoat, and drags him in for a fierce kiss.

Their lips meet, bruising at first and then softening. Tongues gently caress and explore, sharing the taste of sweet wine and the dark chocolate of their dessert. Will moans into the embrace, arching up against Hannibal’s chest as the Alpha’s strong arms close around his waist, hauling him closer.

‘You didn’t want to share,’ Hannibal murmurs, nuzzling along Will’s jaw, nose rasping the hairs of his beard, sucking a blushing bruise over the thundering pulse of his squirming mate.

‘He’s dangerous,’ Will whispers, tugging Hannibal’s face back to his, reclaiming his mouth with his own and fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat. ‘ _You’re_ dangerous.’

‘I am,’ Hannibal purrs, copying the action with Will’s shirt. He spreads his warm palms flat over the mounded pectorals of his Omega’s chest, massaging gently as Will moans. Despite the changes in his body, Will’s chest has remained mostly flat; his muscles have adapted, bunching higher before softening to better suit feeding the baby. Hannibal dips his mouth to a dusky nipple, taking the bud gently between his teeth and biting just hard enough to make Will’s breath catch before suckling on the sweet tip.

‘I didn’t really want to share you, either,’ he murmurs, repeating the action on the other nipple before kneeling before his below and kissing a trail down his abdomen. He swirls his tongue into the hollow of Will’s navel, mimicking the action he’d like to do to another, more intimate, part of him, and Will groans his approval of the idea. He bows over Hannibal, hips rocking gently as his Alpha kisses at the damp seam of his pants, winding his fingers through the other man’s soft blond hair and urging him to apply more pressure to his throbbing hardness.

Hannibal uses his teeth to tug the zipper down, grinning up at Will as he undoes the button and spreads the fabric apart. He plucks at the elastic of the Omega’s boxers, making the fabric snap back against Will’s skin, and then tugs them away from the erection he wants to taste.

Will hums at the coolness against his sensitive flesh, smiling and blushing even as his Alpha licks, slowly and deliberately, at the pearly wetness gathering on the tip. The pleasure has a sharpness to it, an ache that gets him behind the balls, and he feels slick wet between his ass cheeks, even as his heart skips a beat.

‘ _Delizioso,’_ Hannibal purrs, gazing up at him with open adoration. _‘Bellissimo.’_

‘ _Mostro_ ,’ Will whispers, a tear slipping down his cheek when his Alpha’s warm hand spread across the cesarean scar on his belly. ‘You’re killing me.’

‘I’ve only _ever_ wanted what’s _best_ for you,’ Hannibal says. He rises to his feet and pulls Will after him, leading him into the bedroom. He pushes him down onto the mattress, crawling over his body to cover him with his own. Supports himself on his elbows and devours his mouth, hot breath dampening the air between them.

‘Fuck me,’ Will gasps, throwing his head back in abandon, surrendering to the sensations wrung from him by the other man.

Hannibal’s red eyes lock onto the white column of his throat, offered so freely, and he snarls before locking his teeth into the flesh, biting down on the windpipe with enough force to break the skin.

 _There was so much blood_.

Crimson wells, droplets in each cut left by his teeth. A perfect ring of red, like a posy abandoned on winter snow.

‘Fuck me,’ Will repeats, rearing up to grab Hannibal by the cheeks and drag him back down. The clothes don’t matter; their naked skin slides against each other and sparks fly. Time has no meaning here; they are locked together, connected by more than mere flesh, writhing and bucking together, chasing the flames of orgasm before the crashing white drowns them and they lose this moment.

_Did you think you could change me?_

‘I did,’ Will whispers, his voice trembling as he presses his cheek to Hannibal’s, screwing his eyes tight shut against the invading daylight, refusing to wake up from this dream, this perfect dream with his mate, his Alpha.

_The father of my children._

‘You did,’ Hannibal promises, a sharp cry leaving him as climax overwhelms him. He arches his spine, thrusting his hips forward as far as possible, spilling his seed inside his mate before his knot locks them together.

 _Forever_.

‘Stay with me,’ he begs, stroking Will’s damp curls back from his ashen face, despising the look of pain and betrayal on such beautiful features. ‘Stay with me.’

_Stay with us, Will… Stay with us… That’s it…_

‘I…’ Will feels his eyes slide shut, the lids too heavy to move, limbs too weak to support him as he floats back into emptiness. ‘I trusted you.’

_And you trusted me._

‘Will!’

Hannibal’s cry rings out into the empty bedroom of the Florentine apartment, echoing from the frescoed walls. His chest heaves, his heart thundering and cheeks wet with tears from his dream.

_Just a dream… It was just a dream._

He swings his bare legs out of bed and covers his face in his hands, blocking out the encroaching dawn.

_Why can’t I stop thinking about him?_

***

On Friday morning, Bedelia Du Maurier makes the same trip that Hannibal imagines Will would make for him, entering the artisan deli in a turquoise hat, navy coat and green scarf.

‘ _Due bottiglie di B_ _â_ _tard-Montrachet e tartufi bianchi, per favore.’_

A rabbit, freshly killed, hangs on a hook where the pheasant had previously been. As Bedelia watches, her stomach writhing, another drop of blood falls from its nose to land with a sickening splash into the congealing puddle on the flagstone floor.

The shopkeeper places the paper bag on the counter before her, and Bedelia collects it with a faint,

‘ _Grazi_ ,’ before escaping into the dully, overcast day.

She doesn’t go home immediately. Instead, defying Hannibal’s orders, she goes to the train station, where she sits on a bench with the _Vera Dal 1926_ bag beside her, label clearly visible to the security cameras. Her profile is obvious but, just in case, she turns after a moment and stares straight at the lens.

_Come and find us. Please._

***

Ten years ago, when Dr Bedelia Du Maurier had killed her patient, Hannibal Lecter had been the one to hide the circumstances of the death. He had saved her from the electric chair, and damned her to a life as his therapist, instead.

_When pushed to extreme measures, one’s true character becomes known._

Watching her shudder at her own malicious act, her own cruelty, Hannibal had done nothing to hide the proud purr he felt rattling in his chest. She was covered in blood; her right arm and all of her right shoulder; splattered over her face from the attack, her pores stained and cuticles pink.

She hadn’t recognized him at first. Going into shock, no doubt.

‘He attacked me,’ she’d said, her voice hoarse in the aftermath of Rut. Her scent glands were still swollen, crushing her windpipe, and Hannibal had smelled the musky tang of her arousal.

_You enjoyed hurting him._

‘Is that your blood?’ he’d asked, already knowing the answer.

‘No.’

Crouching beside the dead Beta, Hannibal had asked Bedelia if she had been defending herself, before inspecting the pristine, unmarred hands of the supposed attacker.

‘I was reckless,’ Bedelia had admitted, glancing towards him.

‘This wasn’t reckless violence,’ Hannibal had said, forcing her to stay with him in the reality he had spent so many years carefully constructed for her. ‘It was a controlled use of force.’

_You chose to do this._

‘I know what happened,’ Bedelia had replied, a tear rolling down her cheek at the hopelessness of her situation.

_You set me up._

‘Do you?’ Hannibal’s gaze had pierced her, even from behind, and Bedelia’s heart had hurt so much to know she was so utterly trapped by the man she’d once called friend.

‘He was your patient before he was mine.’

***

 _Will would call me reckless for what I’m about to do,_ Hannibal thinks, rising to the podium at the front of the room of the _Palazzo Capponi_ to deliver his lecture on Dante. _If only he were here with me._

He imagines him there, in place of Bedelia. Will looks resplendent in an Omegan-cut tuxedo, his hair combed back and a wedding ring glinting on his hand. The suit is nipped in at the waist, cut down at the neck but still modest over his crest.

Will wipes a hand over his face, hiding a groan of disapproval as his Alpha peacocks on the stage before a roomful of pompous Alphas.

‘In accord with my own taste for the pre-Renaissance,’ Hannibal says, rich voice carrying easily across the sea of scholars; ‘I present the case of Pietro della Vigna, whose treachery earned him a place in Dante’s Hell.’

_Don’t ever betray me, beloved. It will be the last thing you ever do._

He moves in front of the projector screen as he talks, covered by the demonic faces of Dante’s Inferno.

 _Fitting_ , Will thinks, his stomach twisting uncomfortably at all the attention on his partner. _Since you are the Devil._

‘He was disgraced,’ Hannibal continues, ‘and blinded for betraying his emperor’s trust.’

The face of Lucifer gazes from his, and Hannibal’s eyes flicker the red of hellfire before he clicks onto the next image.

‘Dante’s pilgrim finds him in the seventh level of the Inferno,’ he says, glancing over his shoulder at the artwork. ‘Reserved for suicides.’

_Better to kill yourself than have me kill you. I’ll make it hurt more._

‘Like Judas Iscariot, he died by hanging,’ he adds, walking to the side to allow his audience to see the beautiful paintings. ‘Judas and Pietro della Vigna are linked in Dante’s Inferno…’ He wanders down the aisle and places a hand, very carefully, on Will’s shoulder.

_I forgive you, Will. Will you forgive me?_

‘Betrayal and hanging,’ he says, the poison-tipped words aimed straight for his Omega’s heart. ‘Then, linked since antiquity, the image appearing again and again in art.’

 _He knows_.

‘This is the earliest known depiction of the crucifixion,’ Hannibal explains, going to the next slide. ‘Carved on an ivory box in Gaul, about AD 400. It includes the death by hanging of Judas, his face upturned to the branch that suspends him.’

 _You held me up as you cut the life from me,_ Will thinks, feeling bile scratch the back of his throat. _You tore me down and broke my world apart… So how am I here? How is this happening?_

‘On the doors of the Benevento Cathedral, we see Judas hanging with his bowels falling out.’ As he speaks, Hannibal’s eyes flicker to the back of the room. A latecomer hovers behind the columns; a handsome young Omega in a frock coat and patterned scarf.

_My dear Mr Dimmond._

‘And here,’ Hannibal continues; ‘from a fifteenth-century edition of _The Inferno_ , is Pietro della Vigna’s body, hanging from a bleeding tree.’

Will, sensing Hannibal’s interest has been piqued, looks over. His heart sinks further and his mouth goes very dry.

Anthony Dimmond… And now he knows the truth; that Hannibal is pretending to be Dr Roman Fell. And the only way someone can take another person’s identity without them reporting you is if that person is dead.

_You just signed your own death, Mr Dimmond. Why did you have to come? Why did you have to indulge your curiosity, as I did?_

‘I won’t belabor the parallels with Judas Iscariot,’ Hannibal says, humming softly at the woodcutting of a man dying in agony from a palm tree. ‘Betrayal, hanging… _self-destruction_ …’ He sighs. ‘“ _Io fei gibetto a me de le mie case”._ “I make my own home be my gallows”.’

_I’ll kill you at home, Will. If you ever come back to me, I will kill you for betraying me._

‘Mr Dimmond.’ Hannibal gestures for Anthony to take a spare seat at the back. ‘Welcome. Please, join us.’

Anthony inclines his head, bashful and coy, his sweet Omegan scent soothing the riled Alphas around him as he slips into a chair so as not to distract from the rest of the lecture.

‘We were just about to discuss the matter of chewing in Dante.’

Anthony smiles, his blue eyes narrowed. He’s sure _Dr Fell_ will give him quite a bit to chew on.

The next time Hannibal glances at the seat in the middle row, Will has gone.

***

There’s an odd sense of the surreal as Will runs down the marble steps of the Palazzo Capponi, his heart hammering in his chest and brow prickling with sweat. He has a feeling that he isn’t really here, that he isn’t in Florence, racing home to his apartment to pack his bags and leave before Hannibal’s lecture finishes.

_I’m not running… I’m flat on my back…_

Still, he hails a cab and tries not to hurry the driver as they follow the twisting roads back to the riverside apartment. Once inside, Will stops for a moment to look around, trying to remember how he got here. How he got from the townhouse that awful evening to Florence…

_Is this even real?_

He flinches at the baby’s cry, but the sound tugs so viscerally at him that it can’t not be real. He’d know that sound anywhere. His baby; his little girl.

_I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here._

***

As Will tends to their child, Hannibal concludes his lecture. There is a round of applause, not too loud but certainly enthusiastic, and then the scholars and esteemed Alphas of Florence rise to leave, several passing before Hannibal to congratulate him on a stellar discussion.

‘Thank you,’ Hannibal says, shaking hands with Madame Forreri, one of the _Capponi_ benefactors. ‘Thank you for your kind attention.’

He notices that Anthony Dimmond remains seated, legs crossed and hands clasped on his knee. Golden eyes lock onto red and it is only when the remaining scholars and their guests have left that the Omega rises to approach him.

Professor Sogliato arrives first, as oily and unpleasant as ever, and Hannibal speaks without looking up from tidying his notes.

‘Would you say I secured my position, Professor Sogliato?’

‘Well, the Studiolo seem…’ Sogliato deliberately searches for the right word, as if the very taste of it is unpleasant in his mouth. ‘ _Satisfied_.’

‘Satisfied?’ Anthony sways his hips and dips his head to grin at the smaller Alpha as he challenges his assessment of the lecture. ‘I thought the applause was downright enthusiastic!’ He chuckles. ‘In its soft and dusty way.’

‘Dottore Fell is a friend of yours?’ Professor Sogliato asks, looking from Alpha to Omega with a frown.

Anthony smirks, his irises flooding gold as he plays with the predator before him.

‘I was his TA at Cambridge,’ he says, and Boris – Roman – whoever he is – looks at him with an inscrutable expression on his gorgeous face. It emboldens him. Makes him add, in a daring whisper, ‘The tales I could tell.’

 _Don’t,_ Hannibal thinks, irises flashing brighter red for just a second before he smiles.

Professor Sogliato, noting the sudden tension between them, smirks again.

‘Please do.’

Anthony, smiling knowingly at the Alpha posing as his old mentor, merely purrs softly and releases a wave of hormones to soothe the two Alphas around him, his scent thick and sweet.

‘What kind of friend would I be?’ he replies, and then looks at the smaller, Italian Alpha with a helpless shrug.

‘Hm.’ Professor Sogliato’s eyes flicker crimson and then fade to black with disappointment. He’ll get no support here. The Omega is clearly lovesick. ‘What kind of _friend_ , indeed.’

_Not a friend. An amante. A lover. A sycophant from your legendary harem._

He grinds his back teeth and sighs through his nose.

‘Dottore.’

With a sharp nod at Dr Fell and his _Omega-secondi_ , Professor Sogliato retreats and leaves them to their evening.

He is a patient man. And he will see Dr Fell removed from the Studiolo, if it’s the last thing he does.

In the ensuing silence, Hannibal continues to tidy up his notes, fastidiously avoiding Anthony’s piercing gaze. He wants to know how long the Omega can keep waiting.

Eventually, when it becomes apparent that Anthony isn’t going to speak, Hannibal graces him with a cool smile. His eyes are dark, the burgundy drawing back to thin rings around his irises. He’s waiting; curious and cautious in equal measures.

With a knowing smile, a flash of golden eyes and a low purr, Anthony turns away, enticing the Alpha to follow after him. He trails a finger along the iron cage hanging from a wicked-looking hook, leaving a fading scent behind him before moving on.

‘An exposition of atrocious torture instruments,’ he murmurs, ‘appeals to connoisseurs of the very _worst_ in mankind.’

Hannibal follows very close behind him, hands loosely held in the pockets of his tuxedo trousers.

‘Now that ceaseless exposure has calloused us to the lewd and the vulgar, it is instructive to see what still seems wicked to us,’ he says, eyeing the display of a cruel, medieval Omegan crest brace in a glass cabinet.

‘What still slaps the clammy flab of our submissive consciousness hard enough to get our attention?’ Anthony replies, repressing a shiver of repulsion at the device. He pauses before another contraption meant to control wayward Omegas; a Scold’s Bridle, complete with crest pincher.

‘What wickedness has your attention, Mr Dimmond?’ Hannibal asks, and Anthony speaks over his shoulder without looking at the Alpha.

‘Yours,’ he says. He turns, his eyes glowing like golden suns from within his pretty face. ‘ _Dr Fell_.’

Hannibal says nothing, just waits, and Anthony smirks as he turns away, believing himself safe.

‘Oh, I have no delusions about morality,’ he says. ‘If I did, I would have gone to ‘la polizia’.’ He moves towards a wooden wheel, still stained with the blood of ancient victims. ‘I’m curious as to what fate befell Dr Fell,’ he continues, wandering around the back of it, staying a few steps ahead of the Alpha. ‘To see you here in his stead.’

Hannibal smiles, his eyes sparking red in the darkness.

‘You may have to strap me to the breaking wheel to loosen my tongue,’ he purrs, daring the Omega to try.

_Will could. Only Will._

‘You overestimate my affection for the genuine Dr Fell,’ Anthony replies, allowing his disdain to curl his upper lip. ‘Clearly, you found him as distasteful as I did.’

‘On the contrary,’ Hannibal replies. _His liver, in particular, was delicious._

Anthony narrows his eyes and steps closer, each man on a side of the wheel.

‘We could twist ourselves into all manner of uncomfortable positions,’ he whispers, ‘just to maintain appearances… with or without a breaking wheel.’

Hannibal tilts his head and smirks.

‘Are you here to twist me into an uncomfortable position?’ he teases, a low purr rattling in his chest when Anthony’s breath catches.

‘I’m here to help you untwist,’ the Omega breathes. ‘To our _mutual_ benefit.’

Hannibal’s smiles widens, his eyes sharpening with hunger.

_It will be to my benefit, certainly… But not to yours, Mr Dimmond._

***

At the apartment, Will throws together a suitcase of clothes and essentials for himself, Abigail and the baby, and is shepherding his family towards the front doors when the handle turns and his blood runs cold.

_I’m too late._

He falls back as the door opens towards him, hugging the baby close to him and keeping Abigail behind him.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him before leading the way inside, coolly disapproving of his attempts to flee. Just behind him, looking curiously amused, is Anthony Dimmond.

_You’re killing him here… In front of our children?_

The Omega barely glances at Will – _Luther Fell, or whoever you are –_ and Hannibal seals them all inside together.

Safe from prying eyes, and all they might report.

‘Shall we discuss terms?’ Anthony asks, turning to face the man responsible for the death of his former mentor.

The blow comes instantly. Without hesitating, Hannibal picks up the heavy marble phrenology bust from the side table and swings it, with all his strength, over the back of Anthony’s head.

The sharp edge pierces his skull, fracturing the bone and crushing his brain. Blood sprays, casting a wide arc, and Abigail jumps back with an audible gasp, her hands over her mouth. Will flinches but he can’t move fast enough to stop the spatter of blood across his face, staining the back of his baby’s head.

_Born in blood._

Anthony collapses on his front, limbs heavy and useless. Hannibal snarls, gathering himself back up after the swing and inspects the red dripping from the edge of the weapon.

Crude, but effective. And there is some satisfaction to have used the model of an Omegan brain to destroy another.

As he steps away, Anthony groans and tries to lift his head. Pain is like a living thing inside his mind, crawling tendrils down his spine and into his arms. He feels sick, his vision wavering and blurry. He whimpers, the scent of fear mingling with rapid-onset Heat hormones designed to soothe the Alpha threatening him, enticing him into protecting him.

‘Observe or participate,’ Hannibal says, placing the blood-smeared bust back onto the table. He looks over at Will as he speaks, shrugging out of his coat with a cold, cruel little smile.

Will, his heat hammering and brain spinning at the idea that Hannibal really is killing someone in front of their daughter, their _baby_ , just blinks at him, too stunned to process the question. He takes a moment, and then realizes that Hannibal really is directing the statement – question? – towards him.

_Make a choice._

‘What?’ he asks, shaking his head to clear the fog.

_This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. It’s a dream._

Hannibal growls, baring a hint of fang, and his eyes burn crimson.

‘Are you, in this very moment, observing or participating?’ he demands, forcing Will to make a choice.

_You’re never getting away from me, mylimasis. So choose; join me as my equal or support me as a subservient._

Will tries to swallow, hating the smell of coppery blood in the air. The baby feels weightless in his arms, like it isn’t really there; the dream is collapsing into a nightmare and he can’t move. He can’t leave. Can’t do anything.

‘Observing,’ he whispers, his back pressed to a marble column as Hannibal wanders away to set his coat down.

Sensing an opportunity, a chance, however slim, Anthony starts to drag himself towards the door. If he can get to the handle, get it open, he can scream for help. He can alert someone to his situation.

‘You say you’re observing,’ Hannibal calls, allowing Anthony his futile efforts; ‘but _this_ … This is participation, William. Did you know what he would do?’

He steps carefully over the growing pool of blood seeping into the floorboards, burgundy eyes locked onto his Omega as he closes the distance between them.

‘I would prefer you answer honestly,’ he warns, and Will trembles under the intensity of the stare.

 _Don’t lie to me._ The agreement between them both, enduring no matter what. They can refuse to answer, but they can’t lie to one another.

‘I… was curious,’ he admits, and Hannibal nods, pleased so far with the reply.

‘You were curious what would happen,’ he says, narrowing his eyes just slightly at the smaller man. ‘You were curious what Dr Dimmond would do… What _I_ would do.’ He reaches out, gently caressing Will’s cheek, his thumb brushing the scratchy beard at his jaw. ‘Did you anticipate our thoughts? Counter-thoughts? Rationalizations?’

‘Yes,’ Will whispers, the confession drawn from him by the intensity of his mate’s expression. Hannibal hums, considering the response, and then steps back, gesturing down to Mr Dimmond, who continues struggling to drag his dying body towards the door.

‘Is this what you expected?’ he asks, and Will buries his face in the soft, sweet-smelling hair of their baby, desperate to comfort himself in the dream before it all collapses and he’s left alone again. Tears well in his eyes and he hears a whimper catch in his throat, his eyes flaring gold behind the wetness.

Anthony Dimmond was dead the moment he met Hannibal Lecter. _He_ was dead the moment he met him.

‘Yes.’

Hannibal nods, his eyes hard and flat. Shark eyes. Killer eyes.

_You didn’t look like that in the kitchen, but you did when I rejected you in the prison… You did just before you killed Beverly._

‘That’s participation,’ the Alpha says coldly, and Will gulps back a whine. He sags, limbs shaking and tingling, as Hannibal steps away, intent on his new victim.

Anthony gasps at the pain shooting down his back when he tries to lift his arm to the handle. He gives his head a sharp shake, trying to clear the blood from his eye and the dark spots swarming his vision.

 _I’m not going to die,_ he thinks. _It’s not going to end like this. Not here. Not like this._

Hannibal purrs, long and loud, and walks quickly to the Omega stretching for the doorknob. He plants his feet on either side of the man’s body, settles his weight in his thighs and clasps his hands beneath Anthony’s jaw.

A sharp tug and a wrench backwards separates the top three vertebrae from the rest of the spinal column. Nerves snap and the signals commanding the brain and heart to keep going are interrupted.

Death occurs in moments. Anthony Dimmond collapses, the light fading from his golden eyes, and Hannibal pulls a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tuxedo, wiping blood from his fingers as he leaves the corpse by the door.

‘What _have_ you gotten yourself into, my dear Will?’ he taunts, smirking at the quivering Omega desperately clutching their baby to his chest. ‘Shall I hang up your coat?’

When Will hesitates, Hannibal settles the handkerchief back into its pocket and reaches out to help, making it very clear that it is an order, not a request.

Will flinches, a tear trickling down his cheek, but he doesn’t fight Hannibal when his Alpha removes the overcoat from his shoulders. He adjusts the bundle of sleeping babe, focusing all his attention on comforting the little child, and holds very still when Hannibal presses a kiss to his forehead.

‘Close your eyes,’ the Alpha murmurs, and Will obeys. He feels himself drifting into a deep and painless sleep, rocking gently with the faint clack of wheels on a train track. He’s warm, safe and on his way back to where he belongs.

_I’m coming for you, beloved. Are you ready?_

***

He misses Will so much it hurts.

Hannibal stares from the window of his private train carriage. He’s on his way to Palermo, carrying with him a large suitcase, tightly sealed and strapped shut to hold his precious cargo inside.

_He was never a replacement for you, mylimasis._

The day is clear and bright, but is little comfort in the beauty of the Italian countryside speeding past. Not in the vineyards or olive groves, the clay-roof villages or the ancient churches.

_I’m not with Will. I’ve not been with him for months. He broke my heart, so I broke him. Gutted and Cut him to terminate the pregnancy and sever the bond. The best way to hurt him._

_The only way I knew how to set him free._

As afternoon surrenders to evening, and Hannibal’s belly rumbles with hunger, his mind wanders back the last meal he cooked for Dr Gideon. Escargot, with Chantilly cream and white wine sauce, served with fresh lemon and garlic butter. It was a meal he’d hoped to cook for Will, rich in protein and amino acids for the baby, but instead of his beloved Omega, he had sat across the length of the table from the surly, uncouth Alpha.

Abel, petulant as ever, had tapped his two-pronged fork on the fine china bowl, creating an offensive clang at odds with the light French horn medley of pavane.

Determined to ignore him, to simply enjoy the flavors and textures of the meal, Hannibal had eaten his first cochlear, but the lesser Alpha’s obvious stare and the rhythmic _thunk_ of metal on porcelain had grated on his nerves.

‘Would you rather I extended you the same kindness as the escargot?’ he asked, and finally, _finally_ Abel had stopped tapping the fork.

‘Eating me without my knowledge?’ he’d pretended to consider it. ‘No. I find knowing to be far more powerful.’ _Knowing you’ll be caught… Knowing you’ll be betrayed and eaten by the man you love… Eventually._ ‘Why do you think I’m allowing this?’

‘Why do you think _I’m_ allowing this?’ Hannibal had countered, adding sauce to a second cochlear. Abel had sniffed derisively.

‘‘Cos snails aren’t the only creatures who prefer eating with company,’ he’d said, as if it was obvious. A purr and a flash of red eyes; the last vestiges of Alphan strength in his mutilated, half-eaten body. ‘If _only_ that company could be _Will Graham._ ’

Abel had then, lacking any finesse or refinement, stabbed at an escargot, whacking it back and forth until the shell loosened and released the dark flesh of the cochlear. A quick blow, an eyeroll and he had popped it into his mouth, chewing with disinterest before dropping his fork with a clatter.

‘I’m just fascinated to know how _you_ will feel when all this…’ Abel had looked around, at the plate, the table, the whole damn charade; ‘happens to _you_.’

In the train carriage, at the end of a long, lonely day, Hannibal watches the sun sink beneath the distant hills. The sky is the bruised blush of twilight, flickering not with the first view of stars but with the streetlamps of the approaching town.

_I loved you. I gave you all of myself. And you betrayed me. Ate me alive with your deception._

He tears a page from the historic textbook smuggled out of the Capponi library. Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, arms and legs spread wide.

He folds the neck backwards, just as he did with Anthony Dimmond. The paper is easier to manipulate than flesh, but he has the strength to replicate this in muscle and bone.

The torso is next, halved and quartered, ribs splintered and organs squashed to make room for the shape. Hannibal breaks the arms and legs of the drawing, twisting and pushing until the last fold is complete.

Then, as the train pulls into the Palermo station, Hannibal opens his origami creation out, revealing a tiny, anatomically correct human heart.

_For you, mylimasis. My heart. My love._

***

Dawn light seeps through the high windows of the Norman Chapel at Palermo. Dust motes hang in the air, God’s house silent but for the drip of blood onto the ancient mosaic floor.

The tableau doesn’t even resemble a body at first. Shadows dancing with the opening rays of a new day slide off the edges of a broken torso. The skin has been flayed, the bones broken and ribs crushed, limbs twisted and pinned. Impaled on three swords, the overall image is one of a human heart, perfectly balanced over the center of the skull graven into the floor.

A shocking reminder of mortality.

_Come find me, Will. I’m ready._


	2. Primavera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wakes after a long and difficult recovery following Hannibal’s attack in Baltimore, trying to piece his life and his shattered psyche back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooosh, okay, important chapter... I really hope I've done it justice and that you all enjoy it. Comments, especially on this one, will be very much appreciated. xxx

TWO

_Primavera_

THEN

_It isn’t supposed to be like this._

The thought swarms in Will’s mind; a dark and endless buzz of panic as he follows the trail of destruction through the townhouse.

Alana lies dying outside; thrown from the upper window to shatter on the front steps. Jack is nowhere to be found, but Will smells the cloying, scratching scent of Rut, two distinctive tangs, and he knows his mentor, his boss, his friend, is here.

_Is he already dead? Am I too late?_

Beyond the barrel of his gun, cocked and ready to fire if he needs it, Will sees blood seeping from beneath the pantry door. So much blood… Jack’s blood…

_How much blood can one person lose?_

A sound catches his attention; a hitched breath and a sob, quickly stifled. Will spins, his heart racing, adrenaline spiking and finger tightening on the trigger –

Shock robs him of his strength, and he almost drops the weapon from suddenly numb hands when he sees who it is.

‘A-… Abigail?’

His surrogate daughter quivers, tears rolling down her cheeks, limbs locked in place by fear and shock. Her brown hair is swept back into a high pony, revealing a shocking gap on her right side, where her ear should be.

_The ear he made me swallow…_

Will’s brain can’t make sense of it all. It registers facts, not feelings; Abigail is wearing hunting clothes. Abigail is dry, but for a misting of rain on one arm. Abigail’s blue eyes dart from his face to his shoulder and back, as if she’s waiting for someone.

‘I… I didn’t know what else to do,’ the Beta whispers, her lip wobbling as fresh tears well. ‘So… I just did what he told me.’

_What he told you…_

Hannibal.

Will’s brow furrowed and sadness leeches the strength from his voice.

‘Where is he?’

Abigail’s breath catches and she shivers again; Hannibal has crept into the room behind Will. She tries to tell him, tries to say something but the words get stuck in her throat and all she can do is look, frantically, over Will’s shoulder to tell him he’s there, the Alpha is right there, with a curved blade in his hand.

The hairs on Will’s arms stand on end and his crest prickles as he senses a threat behind him. He turns, terrified of what he’ll see, his lungs squeezed too small inside his chest for all the words he wants to say.

‘You were supposed to _leave_.’

Hannibal is haggard; exhausted from the fight with Jack and bleeding from a dozen wounds. His neck is swollen; a ligature bruise already darkening, and the pale scar of his Alphan crests stands out in sharp contrast against the damaged flesh. But it is the grief in his eyes that cuts Will; the pain of the betrayal. _His_ betrayal.

_Is that how I looked? When you did it to me?_

The Alpha gazes at him, more honest and vulnerable than Will has ever seen him before. He can see the child he once was, the man he became and the monster he so carefully cultivated. There is no mask, no veil. No carefully tailored person suit.

Just an Alpha and an Omega, and a web of lies strung between them.

‘We couldn’t leave without you,’ Hannibal says, and Will hears a whimper catch in his own throat. He stares, drowning in the emotions battering Hannibal’s fractured psyche. His mate is clinging to anger; a dark, bitter fury at being betrayed, but stronger than that is fear, hurt and confusion. A deep sense of failure, of rejection, of not being worthy of Will’s love.

 _Feel it_ , he thinks, wanting to reach for the other man, to comfort him as he experiences true emotions for the first time since childhood. _Don’t hide behind rage._

Hannibal sighs, his breath wobbling. He reaches for Will, cupping his cheek in the palm of his left hand. His thumb strokes reverently over his eyebrow, wiping away tears, and for just a moment there is such a sweet sense of _love_ flowing through their bond that Will’s heart stops.

And then Hannibal slips his hand back, gripping Will tight by the crest, paralyzing him, and cuts into his abdomen with a curved knife.

The pain is overwhelming. Will cries out, his body jerking instinctively to get away from the blade but unable to do so because of the hold on his neck. Shock comes first, the unbelievable thought that Hannibal is really doing this, stabbing him, risking their child, and then panic swallows him as he realizes _where_ Hannibal’s knife is buried.

_The baby… Hannibal, no, the baby!_

Abigail gives a little scream, covering her mouth with her hands to silence it as Hannibal drags the blade sideways across Will’s belly.

Will spasms again, dropping the gun from numb, useless hands. He grabs for his Alpha’s arm, blood spattering the floor, covering their shoes, and falls against him as his uterus cramps and his balls shrink up against his body.

Hannibal holds him close, a twisted parody of affection, but it’s not comfort he offers.

The curved blade of the nuchalectomy knife slides beneath Will’s crest like butter. Skin parts from muscle, muscle from bone, nerve from sinew, and the sound Will makes has Hannibal hugging him tight and stroking his hair, defying all logic as his instincts take over, desperate to undo the damage he’s done.

_I loved you._

Will is shaking, sobbing against Hannibal’s chest, flayed alive and dying in his Alpha’s arms. He can feel blood spilling down his back, wetting his shirt more, and the ragged flap of skin left at the top of his neck makes him sick. He can’t help but nuzzle Hannibal’s shoulder, sucking up the smell of him, his body a mess of razor-pain and hot nausea.

_The baby…_

‘Time did reverse,’ Hannibal murmurs, hugging him close as their bond collapses, the beautiful cherub-painted room of their memory palace fading forever. ‘The teacup that I shattered did come together.’

_The ambulance is coming… If they get here in time, they can save the baby…_

Will clings to him, his mind stuck on that one, futile hope. He can’t let go; he can’t stop whimpering for his Alpha to save him. To save their child.

_Please… Please, Hannibal, please…_

‘A place was made for Abigail in your world,’ Hannibal continues, still hugging him, still stroking his hair, his scent thick with soothing pheromones to ease his Omega’s pain. ‘Do you understand?’

 _I don’t understand anything_.

Will shakes his head, his breath hitching as cold agony sweeps through him. He’s dizzy, and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut as he hugs Hannibal with desperate abandon, silently screaming for him to stop, to please, _please_ just make it _stop_.

_I never wanted this._

‘A place was made for all of us,’ Hannibal advises, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘Together.’

As he pushes him away, holding him up in a choking grip, Will sees the mangled remains of his Alphan crest, cracked and peeling from the front of his throat. Old blood mingles with new as everything they’d built together crashes down around them, and he feels like his whole world is pouring out of him with every pint of blood lost.

‘I wanted to surprise you,’ Hannibal explains, and Will sobs because he can imagine it; he can imagine how happy, how grateful and relieved he would have been if the night had gone how they’d planned… ‘And _you_ …’ The Alpha glances down at the gun, disgusted. ‘You wanted to surprise me.’

_No… no, I didn’t… Not like this._

The hands holding him up let him go and Will collapses to the floor. He has just enough control left to make sure he rolls as he lands, falling onto his elbow rather than his open belly, and he presses the flesh together in a vain effort to somehow protect the fetus inside.

_This can’t be real… This can’t be happening._

Abigail tries to go after him, but a sharp look from Hannibal freezes her in her place and she watches, helpless, as Will props himself against the wall by the oven, pathetically holding his stomach where the baby is, surely, dying.

‘I let you know me!’ Hannibal snarls, glaring down at Will, his eyes burning red and wet with tears. ‘ _See_ me.’

He pauses, struggling to control himself, desperate to lose himself in anger to protect against the pain of his emotions.

‘I gave you a rare gift,’ he continues, his knuckles white around the wooden handle of the Cutting knife. Tears spill, unchecked, down his face, and Will’s shattered mind has no walls or forts or barriers to protect against the onslaught of despair coming from the other man. ‘But you didn’t want it.’

_I wasn’t good enough for you. I wasn’t good enough for Mischa. The only thing I’m good at is killing._

‘Didn’t I?’ Will whispers, staring up at the man to whom he’d given his heart. The man who had, so thoroughly broken him again.

_I wanted it, Hannibal. I still do. I want you._

‘You would deny me my life,’ Hannibal growls, but Will shakes his head, almost fainting at the pain in his neck.

‘No,’ he manages, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming. ‘Not your life, not –’

‘My freedom, then!’ Hannibal snaps. ‘You would take _that_ from me.’ He turns away as Will gasps and shudders in another bout of pain, and speaks absently towards Abigail as he gives voice to the horror of the foolhardy plan that had, ultimately, failed. ‘Confine me to a prison cell.’

Abigail watches, wary for her own safety, sad for him but hurting more for Will.

Hannibal looks back at Will, tilting his head, his eyes dead and dark like chips of black ice in his face. His anger is winning; black emptiness is a better refuge than the temporary comfort of a lover. If he shuts down his emotions, he won’t hurt anymore, just like before. He’s lost him, Will knows; Hannibal has sought refuge inside the anger and there’s nothing left but rage.

‘Did you believe you could change me?’ the Alpha asks, eerily curious even as Will dies in front of him. ‘The way I’ve changed you?’

Ignoring the tears spilling from his eyes, Will stares up into his mate’s face, wishing he could hide in his own fury but feeling only pain.

‘I already did.’

He manages the tiniest of smiles, sad and sorry, and then curls around himself as another wave of agony steals his breath.

_More than you’ll ever know._

Hannibal releases a long, slow breath, as if resigning himself to the course of action. As if, somehow, there was still a chance he might change his mind. Until now.

‘Fate and circumstance have returned us to this moment,’ he murmurs. ‘When the teacup shatters.’

_We can never really undo the past… All we can do is learn from our mistakes and move forwards as best we can, broken though we may be._

Will can feel his mind starting to splinter. His consciousness, tethered so tenuously in the first place, now ripped from his moorings like a boat in a storm.

_My foundations are shifting sands._

He bares his teeth at Hannibal, hating the resignation in the other man’s voice. It doesn’t have to be this way; it _doesn’t_ , but Hannibal is just giving in. He isn’t fighting for them. Why isn’t he fighting for them?

_You were supposed to be my paddle._

‘I forgive you, Will,’ Hannibal says, so softly that Will’s heart leaps with the hope that maybe, maybe, he’s changed his mind. ‘Wil you forgive me?’

_Forgive you…?_

It takes him a second, just a second, and then he realizes what Hannibal means. What he was referring to when he mentioned the teacup and time.

‘Oh, don’t… _d-don’t_ …’ He shakes his head, desperate little mewls huffing on his labored breath, even as the Alpha reaches for Abigail.

The Beta looks at Hannibal, puzzled, and then goes to him; a good little lamb to the slaughter. She knows; Will can see the thought in her face, but maybe she doesn’t quite believe it, either. Maybe, somehow, she still trusts him not to hurt her too badly…

‘Abigail,’ Hannibal murmurs, drawing her in like a spider with a fly. ‘Come to me.’

He holds her to him, her back to his chest, his strong arms caging her in, just like Hobbs did in the kitchen last year.

It’s happening again, but Will can’t save her this time. He can’t do anything to stop his Alpha, his mate, from killing their first child. Their daughter.

 _Born in blood_.

‘No, no, no! Hannibal! No!’ he sobs, but it’s no use.

The blade cuts deep, slicing through muscle and severing the artery. Abigail chokes, drowning in her own blood, even as more of it spurts across Will’s face, blinding him.

The Beta falls to her knees and then onto her back, gasping and holding onto her neck, her fingers stained red as the skin parts. She’s so pale and there’s so much blood pouring out of her, hurried along by the pounding of her panicked heart.

_Please… Please make it stop._

Will leans over, one arm cradling his own wound, the other reaching for his daughter’s. He tries, desperately, to stem the flow but it’s too fast and the skin is slippery with it.

Hannibal crouches beside him, his face oddly tender as he watches the futile attempt to save Abigail’s life.

‘You can make it all go away,’ he says softly. ‘Put your head back… Close your eyes… Wade into the quiet of the stream.’

_I don’t need a memory palace. All I need is a stream._

Will hates him; in that moment, in that kitchen, he hates Hannibal Lecter with every fiber of his being. He hates that he ever met him; hates that he didn’t shoot him when he had the chance.

_I wish Jack had killed you._

Hannibal rises and Will hears himself start to keen, frantic to save his dying daughter and dying fetus. He’s alone; there’s no one to save them, and their lives are slipping through his fingers.

_You broke me. I thought you loved me but you’re addicted to watching me suffer._

Will hears a breath, the labored gasp of a creature in pain. He turns his head; a futile hope quickly crushed that it might be someone who can help.

It’s the Ravenstag. Lying by the counter, its great antlers cracked and flaking, its flanks soaked with blood, drying to stiffen feather and fur.

It’s dying.

The creature pants, its eyes rolling back in pain. Each gasp for breath mirrors Will’s, growing shallower with every slowing heartbeat until, at last, it’s over. As the last breath fades, the stag begins to dissolve into a tide of red. Will hears water, the current of the stream tugging at him, and he can’t do anything to stop it from rushing over him.

Blood drowns the kitchen. Will’s body is cold and heavy, and he has a sense of sinking, even as his mind drifts upwards and away. He can’t hold on anymore. The teacup falls, white porcelain in the darkness, and then he shatters into a thousand tiny pieces.

_It wasn’t supposed to be this way._

***

NOW

It’s dark. It’s always dark where he is. Madness coils around him like a python, caressing him with its scales even as it crushes the life from him.

Will turns, twisting to get away, but the snake holds him tight. It pins him to the ground, clamping its jaws on the back of his neck, cold fangs cutting into the ragged scar of his mangled crest, paralyzing him as sure as any brace.

‘Hannibal!’ Will cries for him, begging him to stop, to save him, to find him in the abyss, but all he hears is an echo of his own voice, mocking him in the void.

How long has he been here? It feels like forever, but time really has no meaning in the gap between life and death. Will isn’t even sure he’s _Will_ anymore. Maybe Will Graham died in that kitchen, long ago. Maybe he’s nothing but a remnant of a man long gone.

_Was I ever really here? Was I ever anything at all?_

He drifts on a breeze of blood and tears, carried downstream in a splash of chubby hands in soapy water, a copper bathtub and flowing gauze curtains.

‘Mischa!’ A little boy calls from the banks of the river, but try as he might, Will can’t see who it is. ‘Willy…’

_My father called me that… When I was a child… Am I a child again?_

The thoughts slip through his fingers and the water closes over his head. The snake squeezes again, tugging him under, and Will drowns in his own madness.

***

‘The damage is… extensive,’ Dr Shapiro admits, glancing sideways at the Beta man stood beside him. ‘The knife used to perform the nuchalectomy is called a _Koboi_ ; a traditional Cutting knife… It removed almost all of Will’s nuchal tissue, and caused severe nerve damage.’

Bill Graham shudders. He wrings his ragged green baseball cap between calloused hands, staring through the glass of the Stonebarrow Specialist Omega Hospital’s Intensive Care Unit with the same blue eyes as his son. Will is lying on a bed, wired to monitors and IV drips, intubated and fighting for his sanity. His life.

‘He ever gon’ wake up?’ Bill asks, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘You’ve had him here for months. Got him in some sort of induced coma, right?’ He swallows and brushes angrily at the tears on his grizzled cheeks. ‘So… So, he could wake up if you stopped pumpin’ him full’a that crap, right?’

‘Mr Graham…’ Dr Shapiro sighs. ‘The psychological trauma alone could still kill him, even _with_ the sedatives. If Will experiences the slightest amount of stress, he could go into shock or Heat, and both of those things would be very, very bad. Right now, the best thing for everyone is for him to remain in a deep and dreamless sleep.’

‘My Willy’s never had dreamless sleep,’ Bill mutters, his eyes on the screen displaying the Omega’s brainwaves. ‘You can bet your ass he’s fighin’ somethin’ in that mind of his.’

Dr Shapiro reaches out and gives the older man’s elbow a quick, comforting squeeze.

‘Let’s hope, for Will’s sake, that he’s fighting to stay alive.’

***

‘The finest bone china,’ Hannibal murmurs, holding out a gold-rimmed cup and saucer for Will to take. ‘Rumored to be made from the calcified remains of the assassinated Romanov family.’

‘Tea?’ Will asks, looking down at the murky liquid inside the glistening white cup.

‘It’s important to know when it’s time to turn the page,’ Hannibal replies, hands now busy peeling the skin from a potato. They are in the kitchen of the Baltimore townhouse, weak afternoon sunlight slanting through the big windows, Hannibal in a pink shirt and navy waistcoat, his chef’s apron tied tight about his waist, Will in the silk hospital gown from his MRI scans at the Noble Hills Medical Center. ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do when you wake up?’

‘Having difficulty staying focused,’ Will says, stroking the delicate pattern on the teacup. He wants to go to Hannibal but he can’t make himself move, and the marble countertop filled with glass bowls of rosemary, garlic and onions remains a barrier between them.

‘I would certainly feel better knowing you were being cared for,’ Hannibal comments, now slicing the vegetable into neat wedges. ‘It’s in your nature to look after things, Will. It’s not in your nature to surrender.’

‘Nature versus nurture,’ Will mumbles, trying to get heavy eyes to focus on the liquid. ‘What _is_ this?’

‘You’re not Jack’s fragile little teacup,’ Hannibal says, burning him with his gaze when he lifts his head. ‘Not anymore.’

Will shifts his weight, wondering how such a disjointed conversation can feel so normal. He can feel the pull of needles in his hands and the crook of his elbow, and hear, very distantly, the faint blip of a heart monitor.

‘What if it weren’t so painful,’ Hannibal suggests, ‘to think of me anymore?’

‘Not sure I can ever stop thinking about you,’ Will replies. He takes a sip of the drink and grimaces. ‘This isn’t tea.’

‘No,’ Hannibal agrees. ‘It’s Psilocybin.’

‘Mushrooms?’ Will looks down at the floor; at the black mud of the Elk Neck State Park oozing up between his toes. He’s standing in the middle of Eldon Stammet’s garden; perfect rows of decaying bodies fertilizing the chestnuts, oysters and lion’s mane mushrooms, but he’s also in the kitchen.

_It's all starting to blur._

‘I told you before,’ Hannibal says, briskly wiping his hands on the apron and striding to the teapot. ‘The mirrors in your mind _can_ reflect the best of yourself, not the worst of someone else.’

‘You _broke_ my mind,’ Will says, frowning because this isn’t right… This doesn’t feel real, and he’s starting to lose his grip on the cup. On reality. ‘And then you broke _me_ …’

‘Do you want to feel _safe_ , Will?’

‘I…’ Will can hear his heartbeat, dim but fast. Sweat dribbles down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He’s in the kitchen, standing in a mushroom garden, but the walls are lined with antlers. A thicket of them, each razor tip crowding in on him until he wants to collapse. ‘I feel like I’m fading,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t know how to gauge who I am anymore.’

‘You are who you’ve always been,’ Hannibal promises, and suddenly he’s right in front of him, haggard and exhausted from his fight with Jack. He’s wearing the white shirt, spattered with blood, his nose bleeding and cheek bruised, Alphan crest a stark white line against the ligature mark around his throat.

‘You got inside my head,’ Will manages, his voice wobbling. ‘And you… you _moved_ all the furniture around.’

_I’ve felt like this before… Drifting in the darkness… Stumbling towards something I don’t understand._

‘We’ve been down this road before, Will,’ Hannibal warns, cupping his face with an oddly tender expression on his own. ‘We both know how it ends.’

‘There is no ending,’ Will whispers, and he can see the curved nuchalectomy blade flash in Hannibal’s other hand. ‘There’s just this.’

He blinks and they’re in the kitchen of the Hobbs’ residence. The worst day of Will’s life… Or so he’d thought.

_It can always get worse, can’t it?_

The oak cabinets and cream floor are familiar, as is the garish splash of dried blood where he’d believed Abigail had died, rusty brown and black in the darkness. Hannibal stands at his side, wearing Will’s herringbone coat over the top of his red-stained shirt.

‘It’s as if Abigail was supposed to die a kitchen,’ the Alpha murmurs, and Will hums his agreement, pointing to the splashes.

‘Her throat was cut,’ he says. ‘There’s an unmistakable arterial spray.’

‘It’s called a _Koboi_ ,’ Hannibal mentions, holding the blade up for Will to see. ‘A traditional knife used in the punitive Cutting of wayward Omegas.’

‘“Wayward Omegas”?’ Will snorts in disgust. ‘You mean _independent_ Omegas.’

‘It was a different time,’ Hannibal replies. ‘The Japanese Emperors were not so lenient with their mates as I am.’

‘You’ve shown lenience?’ Will looks down at his own reflection in the blade’s surface, but he can’t see his face. He only sees darkness. A wendigo, starving for something it can never have. ‘What does punishment look like?’

‘What do you see?’ Hannibal breathes, moving around him, dragging the tip of the blade across the rounded weight of his pregnant belly, up his arms until it presses into the nape of his neck, just hard enough to hurt.

‘The shape of a man filled with dark and swarming flies…’ Will leans back against him, hugging black, skeletal arms around himself, desperate for comfort in his circle of hell. ‘I _know_ who I _am_ ,’ he promises, his heart racing, feeling sick, closing his eyes against the swaying, swirling world. ‘I am who I’ve _always_ been.’

_‘Will, you need to relax,’ Hannibal warns, squeezing him uncomfortably tight. ‘You’re going into shock.’_

‘You… you had _no_ traceable motive,’ Will whispers, blinking through the haze of grey spots clouding his vision, his world shaking through visions of forest, farmhouse, lakeshore, beach, kitchen; a sickening rollercoaster of his worst memories.

His ears are ringing, his _teeth_ ache and his skull feels cleaved in two. Acid dribbles onto his brain, sizzling as it melts it from the inside, and his skin is going to slide from his bones with the heat of his body at any moment.

_I’ve felt like this before… This is Heat… Fucked up, dangerous Heat._

‘Let me help you,’ Hannibal begs, but there’s no warmth in his embrace, no safety to be found with him. Will can feel tears running freely down his cheeks, strung out on a crucifix to die for the pleasure of his Alpha.

‘You… you were just… _c-curious_ what I would do!’ he sobs, dizzy from lack of oxygen, tight as a spring and ready to burst.

 _Please… please let me die. I can’t stand this anymore_.

‘You t-took Abigail away… You t-took my baby away…’

_I loved you… I trusted you…_

‘Will, you need to push,’ Hannibal orders, but it’s not the knife that Will has in his hands, it’s the teacup. ‘You’re in labor.’

‘I became a monster,’ Will mutters, pressing a bloodied hand to his cramping belly, to the womb rupturing inside, shredded by antlers. ‘I became you.’

‘Prep for surgery.’

Hannibal turns him, holding him up by the shoulders, and Will stares at him, gazing at the beauty of such a cruel and jealous man.

The knife cuts deep, and Will’s mind cracks. Shockwaves of pain ripple through him, like lightning in his veins, and the cup falls from his hand.

 _I know that sound… I’m flatlining… I’m dying_.

It’s over. Hannibal’s won.

And he’s lost everything. Again.

***

‘It’s time to wake up, son.’

Sometime later – an eternity, a moment, he can’t tell – a man’s voice calls to him from across the fields. Will turns towards it, the warm breeze ruffling his hair as he steps onto the porch of his farmhouse. He tips his face towards the sun, basking in the warmth of it. The simple joy of spring in Wolf Trap, Virginia.

Winston pads out of the house to sit beside him, looking out at the daffodils bobbing in the wind. The grass is lush, rich green and thick after such a harsh winter, and Will hums softly to himself, his arms cradling his pregnant belly.

He’d never expected to mate. Never expected to find someone like Hannibal. Someone who loved him for who he was, not for the person he could be.

‘Will…’

The voices blend together. His father. His Alpha. His doctor… Will looks down at Winston, desperately seeking refuge in the dream, but the brown collie just whines at him, wagging his tail against the steps and lifting a paw to touch his knee.

Will walks through the yard, beyond the barn, past the boathouse, down to the river out the back. The Ravenstag is there, grazing on the far side of the bank, its black coat dappled with sunlight as it feeds on new shoots.

‘I know it hurts,’ his dad says, stepping up beside him on the pebbled shore. ‘It hurt when your Mom left, too. All I wanted to do was bury myself in whiskey.’

‘Why did she leave?’ Will asks, still squinting across the expanse of running water, hating the empty feeling inside him as the stag wanders away to disappear between the trees.

Bill Graham sighs, and runs a hand over his face. His greying hair is curled like his son’s, hidden beneath a fishing cap and greasy from days sitting at his bedside.

_You’re in the hospital, Will. Come on; open your eyes._

‘She never wanted to be a mother,’ the Beta says, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, wearing the same hunting jacket that Will owns. The one he gave him when he graduated college.

_This isn’t real._

‘I’d be a good father,’ Will whispers, tears falling from his eyes as he looks down at the flat belly beneath his folded arms. At the body where his baby no longer sleeps.

‘Then be one,’ his dad says, gripping tight to his shoulder. ‘It’s time to wake up, son.’

The teacup shatters.

_It’s time to wake up, son._

Time slows. Pauses. Will fractures, drifting in nothingness, and then…

The shrill sound of a baby’s cry makes him flinch, the sound tugging so viscerally at him that it _has_ to be real.

He’d know that cry anywhere. His baby. His little girl.

_I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here._

She needs him.

Will takes a breath, bracing for the pain, and pulls the pieces of his shattered psyche back together.

***

Eyelids heavy as rocks eventually succumb to his efforts.

Will blinks, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. He’s lying in a hospital bed, the room painted in soothing shades of blue and gold, drapes pulled shut across the big window. Frosted glass doors muffle the sounds of the ward outside, and he wonders what time it is.

He can feel silk sheets beneath his back; satin blankets over his legs. His neck doesn’t have the raw, stinging feeling of exposed muscle anymore, though he’s grateful for the softness of the pillow beneath his head.

His mouth tastes like chemicals, his nose filled with the scent of antiseptic and fresh gauze.

He can hear the blip of his heart monitor, and sees wires feeding from every part of his body to screens and IV drips.

His gut throbs and he winces, pressing a hand to the bandages wrapped tight around his flat abdomen.

_The baby._

Did it survive? Was the cry he’d heard real? He’d thought it was real… But if it was real, then why isn’t he larger? Why doesn’t he have post-pregnancy body? Why is his belly bandaged?

The door opens and a doctor walks in, dressed in a white lab coat stamped with _Stonebarrow_ _Medical_ _Facility_ on the pocket. He’s an Alpha but his scent has been dulled, and Will can see the edges of contacts over his eyes, blocking out the hint of red in his irises. A useful tactic when dealing with traumatized Omegas, no doubt.

‘Welcome back,’ Dr Shapiro says, eyeing him carefully. ‘We thought we’d lost you for a while, there.’

‘How long is “a while”?’ Will asks, his voice hoarse. Dr Shapiro grimaces at the clipboard between his hands.

‘We had to sedate you again for nearly a month,’ he admits. He gestures to the bandages. ‘You ripped your stitches twice during fits and you were at risk of internal bleeding if we didn’t keep you immobile.’ He tilts his head and draws closer. ‘How do you feel?’

Will thinks. He doesn’t know how to answer that question. How _does_ his feel? How does he feel after having his crest sliced off, his bond to his Alpha brutally severed and his mind ripped apart? How does he feel, knowing he’s lost his baby? Knowing he’s been here for a least a month, comatose and immobilized, all because he made the wrong choice?

_I feel broken. Hollow. Dead. Like I want to scream but I’m mute. Like I’m drowning on dry land._

‘Thirsty,’ he manages, because it’s the safest thing, the only thing, he can say.

Dr Shapiro collects a plastic cup from the side table and holds it out with a straw for Will to sip from. Will manages to lift his head just enough to suck down a few mouthfuls, the tepid liquid more refreshing than the coldest beer he’s ever tasted.

It’s nectar, but it’s not what he really needs.

‘The baby?’ he croaks, golden eyes locked onto the Alpha’s gentle face. ‘My baby?’

‘Will… what do you remember?’ Shapiro asks, scribbling down vital signs as he watches for signs of regression. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

‘I…’ Will’s breath fails and he sags, closing his eyes again as exhaustion pulls at him. ‘Hannibal…’

_He cut me. Sliced me open. Killed our children._

‘He was your Alpha,’ Shapiro offers, and Will fights back a flinch at the tense.

 _Was_.

‘He, um…’ He chews his tongue and blinks away tears, looking up at the doctor again. ‘He stabbed me.’ He nods, confirming to himself the memory of the attack. ‘Cut me… My crest…’

‘You’ve been with us for six months,’ Dr Shapiro says, and Will frowns, confused by the length of time. ‘We had to sedate you for most of that. To keep you alive. Keep you sane.’

_Six months…_

He remembers a weight in his arms. A pull on his chest; a cry forcing him to wake up.

‘Did my baby survive?’ he whispers, hand closing over his abdomen again. ‘Did…?’

_Did Hannibal kill our child, like he killed Abigail?_

Dr Shapiro draws closer, checking his pulse, his temperature and his brain activity.

‘You’ve asked that question before,’ he says. ‘The answer might destabilize you again.’

‘I think Hannibal Lecter gutting me and killing my baby destabilized me,’ Will snaps, his eyes flashing gold even as reality shivers and the room begins to blur. Taking a deep breath, he forces his mind to stay fixed in the present, desperate to hold onto the moment, and Dr Shapiro watches, impressed, as he brings himself back from another episode.

‘I think you’re ready for a visitor,’ the doctor says, smiling gently. ‘Feel up to it?’

‘Who?’ Will asks, resigning himself to FBI Agents swarming the room now that he’s awake and stable enough to answer questions.

‘Well,’ Dr Shapiro says, holding open the door for a nurse to walk inside, carrying a baby wrapped in pink. ‘That’s for you to decide.’

_That’s… That’s my…_

Will’s mind freezes and his heart stops.

Six months. He’s been here for six months, and he was three months pregnant when Hannibal cut him. So his baby, his precious little girl, she must have been born at eight months, ahead of schedule but not dangerously so, waiting for Will to wake again and remain conscious to care for her.

‘Will, meet your daughter,’ the nurse says, speaking softly so as not to startle either patient. She can see the rapid fluttering of the Omega’s pulse, the sheen of panicked sweat on his forehead, but so far, he remains awake and steady enough for her to trust him with the newborn.

She leans down to show Will the baby’s sleeping face.

‘Would you like to hold her?’ she offers, and it’s like a switch. Will starts to sob, scrabbling to sit upright, dragging on the wires and gasping in pain at the pull on his half-healed cesarean scar. The sound wakes the baby and she begins to kick, plaintive little cries getting louder the more agitated they both become.

‘Please,’ Will begs, reaching for his little girl. ‘Please, please, let me have her.’

‘Alright, just relax,’ the nurse says. ‘You won’t do any of us any good if you pop another stitch.’

She raises the head of the bed for Will to sit up and then hands the baby over, showing him how to support her. At a month older, the little girl is a lot less fragile than she had been, but she’s still delicate.

_Is this real?_

Will stares through a haze of tears, his ears filled with the sound of rushing water. He hushes her, his red-faced, furious little girl, rocking her gently until she calms, and then dips his nose to her forehead, sucking up the smell of her and comforting her in his own scent. She smells like hospital laundry detergent, sterile wipes and nappy cream… Bottled milk, nurse’s subtle perfume and, beneath all of that, a faint echo of his and Hannibal’s scent.

 _Born in blood_.

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

‘How…?’ he whispers, drowning in the blue of her eyes, stroking a finger down her pink cheek. ‘How did I make you?’

‘It was where he cut you,’ the nurse says, her hands twitching into fists at the mere idea of an Alpha doing such a thing to a pregnant Omega, least of all his _own_ Omega. ‘You carry your womb lower than most males, honey, so the knife nicked the top part of the placenta, but not enough to cause a miscarriage.’

‘It was an accident?’ Will breathes, still gazing at his daughter, hardly able to believe that this is happening.

Hannibal _never_ makes accidents. He always knows _exactly_ what he was doing. Nothing is by mistake.

‘You are _my_ design,’ Will whispers, memorizing every inch of the perfect little face staring back at him. ‘My baby… My little girl…’

‘She’s quite the fighter,’ the nurse says, smiling down at her charge. ‘She and her brother, both.’

Will’s chest flips and he can’t help but lift his head.

‘Brother?’ He stares at the nurse, certain he’s imagining things, but she grimaces at her own blunder.

‘Of course, honey; you went to sleep again, I’m so sorry.’ She pulls an iPad from her pocket and opens the camera feed for the incubator in the ICU nursery. ‘Not as strong as his sister yet,’ she explains, showing Will the color image of a newborn boy lying in a glass chamber, strapped to nearly as many devices as his father. ‘But he’s coming along just fine.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Will asks, fear making him hoarse, spiking his temperature and setting off a chain reaction of alarms. ‘I want to see him.’

‘There’s no rush, sugar,’ the nurse coos, glancing at the monitors in concern. Will presses a shaky kiss to his daughter’s plump, soft cheek, trying to soothe himself with her presence as the nurse adds, ‘His lungs are just a bit under-developed, but he’s doing really well.’

‘I want to see him,’ Will repeats, glaring up at the Beta standing between him and his pup. ‘Now.’

An alarm pings again and the nurse steps closer. Will tries to fight but his limbs are too heavy. His brain splinters, the knife stabs deep, and the last thing he remembers is the baby being tugged from his arms.

***

He wakes to the sound of a scratchy voice humming an out-of-tune lullaby. It’s the same one his Pops used to sing to him when he was a boy, and when he’d first gone into Heat as a teenager.

The sound is comforting, and Will smiles as he slowly comes back to consciousness.

‘Gotta stay with us, Willy,’ Bill Graham says, barely more than a whisper so as not to wake the grandbaby sleeping in his arms. ‘These pups need a mom.’

‘I’m their father,’ Will replies, but there’s no bite to his voice. He’s just glad to be awake and in the same room as his family. Semantics don’t matter right now. ‘How long was I gone this time?’

‘Just a few hours,’ Bill says, smiling at him as he rocks the sleeping babe. ‘You’re gettin’ better at stayin’ tethered.’

‘Did I dream about my son?’ Will asks, his heart hurting at the idea that it could have been false. ‘Was that real?’

_Is any of this real?_

‘That was real,’ Bill assures him. He adjusts the weight of the baby in his arms and reaches out to hold Will’s hand on top of the blankets. ‘He’s sleepin’, like you need to.’

‘Can I hold her again?’ Will pleads, tears welling and spilling over to roll down his cheeks. ‘Just for a little while?’

Bill considers it for a moment, giving a quick check to the monitors, before he nods and stands up. Easing Will upright again, he places the baby into his son’s arms, stroking through the Omega’s shaggy curls as Will purrs softly to his child.

‘I’m sorry I’ve not been there for you, son,’ Bill says, retaking his seat beside the bed and watching as Will cradles the infant. ‘I know I haven’t been the best father.’

‘You’re here now,’ Will replies, sparing a small, sad smile at the man who’d done his best to raise him. The Beta who’d never understood his Omegan son. ‘That’s all that matters.’

‘You’ve lost your accent,’ Bill says, his own voice thick with his Southern drawl. ‘Don’t hardly recognize you no more.’

‘It’s still there,’ Will assures him, a hint of twang coloring the words. ‘Just subtle; not forgotten.’

His eyelids start to droop and his voice trails away as sleep steals back over him. He stirs the moment his Pops tries to take the baby, though, his arms tightening around the precious bundle.

‘Grace,’ he says, finally releasing her to be carried back to the nursery by her granddaddy. ‘Her name’s Grace.’

‘Like your grandmomma,’ Bill says, his eyes shining with tears at the sentiment. ‘She’d have loved that, Willy.’

‘And Daniel,’ Will says, drifting back into the warm current of his mind, sinking into the feeling of Hannibal’s arms around his waist, and warm lips nuzzling his throat. ‘My son’s name is Daniel.’

***

He dreams of Paris. An apartment with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Garden parties and shopping along the Rue Saint Honoré. Lunch at artisan cafés and dinner at Michelin star restaurants.

He’s having lunch with Hannibal, enjoying the warmth of the late spring day. Sunshine glints off the brand new Ducati _Diavel 1260_ parked at the curb, and they each have a helmet under their wicker seats.

‘That’s a mid-life crisis vehicle,’ Will warns, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he teases his Alpha. ‘Rebound bike.’

‘It’s a fine machine,’ Hannibal replies, cutting into a tender strip of garlic chicken breast. ‘You didn’t complain the other night when we parked overlooking the River Seine.’

‘I was a bit distracted,’ Will reasons, smiling around a mouthful of crisp Chardonnay. ‘If you recall.’

‘With perfect clarity,’ Hannibal purrs, his eyes flickering red with desire. ‘You were magnificent, Will.’

The dream fades without a struggle, and Will opens his eyes to see a nurse smiling down at him. He can still smell garlic, and his belly is full of imagined garlic roasted chicken.

‘Do you want to try some soup, honey?’ the nurse asks, sitting him up and handing him a glass of apple juice. ‘It’s chicken.’

_Silkie chicken in a broth. A black-boned bird, prized in China for its medicinal values since the 7 th century. Wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates and star anise._

_You made me chicken soup?_

_Yes._

He declines, his stomach twisting at the idea of eating anything not cooked by Hannibal. The next meal is beef casserole, but the meat is so tough compared to the tender strips prepared by his Alpha, the potato so bland and the vegetables so salty that he barely chokes down half the portion before nausea overwhelms him.

It’s easier when he doesn’t dream about the other man. The days are filled with physical therapy – swimming to build up the muscles wasted from months in bed – and learning how to prepare milk for Daniel and Grace, how to feed and wind them, and how to change their diapers.

Daniel leaves the ICU after another week, his little lungs put to good use when he cries through the first three nights in the room with his father and sister.

Bill stays with them, quietly supportive as Will manages twins as a single parent. They’re careful not to mention Hannibal, Will’s constant dreams about him, or the question of his guardianship hanging over their heads.

Days become weeks. Weeks become months and then, one day, Will wakes from a nap – in which he and Hannibal had been at a terraced garden party at the Ritz, flirting over champagne as Hannibal hunted Dr Roman Fell – to the strangest sense of déjà vu. He frowns as he comes back to consciousness, light and shadow coalescing into a single, shocking figure.

‘Abigail?’

The Beta smiles at him, her auburn hair hanging loose about her shoulders, wearing sweatpants and a vest top, her throat still covered in gauze.

‘What…?’ Will sits up straighter in bed, cursing his tender abdomen, wishing he hadn’t overdone it earlier in the pool. ‘ _How…?_ ’

‘They said he knew exactly how to cut me,’ Abigail says, and Will shudders as he remembers the sound of the knife cutting through her skin. ‘They said it was surgical.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘He wanted us to live.’

‘He left us to die,’ Will mutters, his eyes flashing gold at the thought of what Hannibal had done. What he’d nearly _cost_ him.

_My babies. My miracles._

‘But we didn’t,’ Abigail replies, shrugging one shoulder. She comes closer and sits on the edge of the bed, light as a feather. ‘He was supposed to take me with him,’ she says. ‘We were all supposed to leave together. He made a place for us.’

She sounds robotic; colder and harsher than she had been in Baltimore. She’s furious; maybe that it had been such a long time since that night, that she’d had to wait so long to see him.

_Why does she still have the bandage on her throat?_

‘Abigail…’ Will starts, but the Beta just turns to him, her blue eyes boring into his skull, making his temples throb.

‘Why did you lie to him?’ she demands, and Will closes his eyes in pain. He hasn’t felt this in a long time. Not since the labor…

_It’s dark on the other side, mylimasis. And madness is waiting._

‘The wrong thing being the right thing to do was… Too ugly a thought.’ He swallows, forcing back a whine, and offers his surrogate daughter a painful smile. It’s a silent plea for mercy, for kindness, but Abigail doesn’t smile back. She just frowns at him; a wrathful angel sent to punish him.

‘He gave you a chance to take it all back,’ she says. ‘And you just _kept_ lying. No one had to die.’

Will lifts his eyes to the ceiling, desperately fighting tears.

_No one had to die… Does that mean… Is this real? Are my babies real?_

‘It’s hard to grasp,’ he murmurs, fighting the pull of the current threatening to drown him once more in madness; ‘what would have happened… could’ve happened… in some other world… _did_ happen.’

_We all left together; we flew to Paris and Hannibal bought a motorcycle… He taught Abigail how to play the piano and I delivered our babies in a French hospital, with my Alpha and my daughter beside me. We’re in Florence, now… We chose the apartment together._

‘I’m having a hard enough time dealing with this world,’ Abigail replies, rolling her eyes. ‘I hope some of the other worlds are… easier on me.’

Will stares at the tiles above him, hearing the trickle of water over pebbles, his sense of self unraveling from his consciousness. One thread, then two, then three, until the tapestry begins to collapse.

‘Everything that _can_ happen, happens,’ he murmurs, fast losing awareness of his words, his voice a flat monotone, his ears deaf to the warning of the EEG still tracking his brainwaves. ‘It has to end well… And it has to end badly…’ He pants, fire licking through his veins as the current swells, tugging him to sink back into the blissful depths of nothingness.

_It’s so much simpler when I’m asleep._

‘It has to end,’ he manages, ‘every way it can.’

He looks back at Abigail; at his beautiful adopted daughter, the viper in his nest. She’s a fledgling monster, and her allegiance lies with Hannibal, not with him.

‘This is the way it ended for us,’ he finishes, expecting and receiving the head shake of refute from his companion.

‘We don’t _have_ an ending,’ Abigail says. ‘He didn’t give us one yet.’ She dips her chin, blue eyes boring into Will’s face, slithering between the cracks of his psyche and stirring the deepest, most primal parts of himself. ‘He wants us to find him.’

_I have to find him._

It’s a howl; a distant call to rejoin the pack. Their family is broken, and Will needs to make it whole again.

But there’s resistance. Hesitation, which Will now gives voice to.

‘After everything he’s done… you’d still go to him?’

Abigail nods, still staring at him with the fierce, insane intensity of the devoted.

‘If everything that can happen happens, then you can never really do the wrong thing.’ She reaches out and gives his hand a squeeze. ‘You’re just doing what you’re supposed to.’

***

_I’m waiting for you, Will. Come find me._

Having fed, changed and settled both Daniel and Gracie without help from his dad or the nurse, Will takes a sedative to help him sleep that night. But, despite the drowsiness stealing over him, fogging his thoughts and making everything blurry, he can’t stop remembering his conversation with Abigail, and the feelings she had evoked when she’d said that Hannibal was waiting for them.

_A place was made for all of us._

The back of his neck itches under the dressing. Will hasn’t been able to look at it yet, but the nurses who change the bandages tell him that his crest is healing nicely. It’s still scarred, but they expect the skin to recover by the end of the year. He might even regain sensation there, if he’s lucky.

Now, though, the skin burns with a thousand fire ants. Will grits his teeth, trying to ignore it, telling himself it isn’t real. It isn’t possible. He focuses on the steady blip of his heart rate, watching the green line spike up on the black screen with every beat.

The itch changes. Moves, nipping its way down his spine until it settles in his abdomen. It calms for a while, allowing him to doze, and then –

_I have to find him._

Muscle rips, flesh tears and Will jerks awake. There’s something sharp pushing up from underneath his stitches. He groans, pressing a hand to the bandages, his pulse quickening at the dampness oozing through the layers of gauze.

A monitor blips as the cotton snaps. Will stares, horrified, as an antler forces its way out of his body, glistening with blood, razor-sharp and perfect for killing.

_We’re just alike._

He sits up, scrambling for the button to call the nurse, but before he can reach for it, he realizes he’s in Hannibal’s office. His hand falls away from the remote and he stares at the familiar room, filling his lungs with the smell of leather, dust and books.

With the smell of _Hannibal_.

It’s exactly the same as he remembers; tall windows flanked by red and grey striped curtains, dark floor and mezzanine library. Expensive furniture and a Persian rug beneath his hospital bed.

_This is where the chaise lounge used to be… He fucked me on that; forced me to take his knot even as he broke my mind._

The canular in the back of his hand is irritating, and Will rips it out. He kicks the covers off, sweating under the layers. When he swings his legs out of the bed, he’s wearing the blue shirt, navy pants and brown boots of the last day they’d been in this room together.

_You smelled Freddie Lounds on me, and you knew I was lying._

He’d been so careful… So meticulous until that point. But he’d grown complacent, and it had cost him everything.

_He gave me a chance, and I just kept lying._

Sheets of paper fall from the ceiling, riding the current of warm air to twist and turn their way to the floor. Will snatches one from above him, staring at the wonky clock with numbers sliding off the side, and he remembers how lost, his terrified he’d felt at the thought of losing his mind.

_Did I ever recover from that? Was there ever any chance I could come back from such abuse?_

The paper singes, blackening around a point of light, and then fire bursts through from behind, eating away the evidence of his history with Hannibal.

_You thought you were helping me. In your own way, you were showing me you cared._

They’d burned a lot of books that day. The fireplace had been crammed with paper, flames greedily consuming Hannibal’s neat, precise lines of writing.

‘When we’re gone from this life,’ Hannibal says, his voice echoing through the hallways of Will’s memory; ‘I will always have this place.’

Will sees himself, sees them both; his strong, handsome Alpha and the conniving Omega beside him, each man cast half in light, half in shadow as they destroy evidence ahead of the FBI search.

‘In your “memory palace”?’ Will had asked, but he hadn’t understood, then.

He understands, now. It’s so clear, and it’s wonderful.

‘My palace is vast,’ Hannibal replies, ‘even by medieval standards.’

Watching from between the leather chairs where he had given himself, body and soul, to the Chesapeake Ripper, Will mouths along to the words spoken by his former mate.

‘The foyer is the Norman Chapel in Palermo,’ Hannibal explains. ‘Severe and beautiful and timeless. With a single reminder of mortality. A skull, graven in the floor.’

_Memento mori. Remember that you must die._

The Will from that day turns his head, his eyes glowing an eerie gold as he stares straight at himself.

The current Will’s skin pebbles, fine hairs standing on end and a scream lodging in his throat.

_What do you see?_

The paper gathers like water on the floor, obscuring the ancient mosaic tiles now replacing wooden boards. As Hannibal and Will continue their conversation by the fire, slipping back into memory, Will crouches down to push drawings of melted clocks away from the skull he can see, staring up at him from beneath his feet.

_Come find me._

Reality shifts, his vision shaking, and Will looks up, up and up and up, to see the high, domed ceiling of the Chapel.

‘Let it be a fairytale, then,’ Hannibal says, and he tugs Will around by the shoulder. ‘Once upon a time –’

They’re dancing in a ballroom together, to the jaunty, charismatic notes of a string quartet playing Beethoven. Glasses clink and low voices murmur compliments as the _Palazzo Capponi_ gather to share the news on whether or not their latest applicant will join their ranks as Curator.

Hannibal looks magnificent as ever in his tuxedo, and Will folds himself into his strong arms as they twirl across the marble tiles. He tries not to, but he can’t keep from looking down every few steps, muttering the one-two-three beat under his breath to keep from tripping or stepping on his Alpha’s toes. The Omegan tuxedo is snug about his waist, tighter than he’d like, but at least the mangled scar of his crest is hidden away beneath the collar, unlike most of the other napes in the room.

‘An Alpha and Omega were terribly in love,’ Hannibal continues, his hungry eyes lingering on Will’s throat. ‘They couldn’t live without each other.’

‘They were slaves to their emotions,’ Will replies, warning Hannibal not to act on his desires. ‘Reckless as animals.’

‘And they lived happily ever after,’ Hannibal finishes, his lips brushing his cheekbone before spinning him out and bringing him back up against his warm body. ‘For the rest of their lives.’

‘I can’t get you out of my head,’ Will murmurs, holding the side of Hannibal’s face and stroking his eyebrow with his thumb. ‘You’re always with me.’

‘Forever, _mylimasis_ ,’ Hannibal breathes, and they kiss, their purrs mingling in perfect harmony with the music of the quartet.

‘Should’ve taken more lessons,’ Will grumbles, but he can’t help feel a flicker of pride as he matches Hannibal step for step in the next verse, keeping up with him until the very last second, when the Alpha decides to spin, turn and bend him backwards over his arm.

The watching crowd applause the bold move, but Will feels his cheeks burn in humiliation at being treated like such an _Omega_ , and his belly cramps in ripping agony.

_The antler… The stitches…_

Getting his feet under him, Will gives Hannibal a shove, but the insufferable man simply lifts an eyebrow and gazes at him with open adoration.

‘ _Bellissimo_ ,’ the Alpha purrs, the heat in his eyes deepening Will’s blush.

In a desperate bid to calm himself, Will straightens his shirt and jacket, shaking his head when Hannibal collects a glass of wine from a passing waiter and offers it to him. He takes half a step back so that the taller man is in front of him when the _Capponi_ scholars approach, en-masse.

_I’m supposed to feed the twins soon… Daniel needs another injection, and I wanted to be there for him._

The voices fade; a dull hum broken only by the blip of a heart monitor. Will frowns, turning to search for the incongruous sound, feeling on the verge of knowing something and then losing it.

The ballroom has become a static scene, the light blurred at the edges. Alphas and Omegas hold position where they are, flutes still fizzing with prosecco but no life in their limbs to drink it.

_This… This is a dream… I’m dreaming again…_

‘Come back to us, son.’

His Pops stands by the ballroom doors, dressed in his usual fishing gear, a rod in his hands and cap on his head. Will frowns, sensing a way home, a way out, and he tries to move closer.

Water stops him. He’s standing in a stream, protected from the cold by waders up to his waist, soft pebbles shifting under his feet as he tries to plant himself more securely.

_I am bedrock._

‘I’ve got you, kiddo,’ his father whispers, taking hold of his hand and holding tight. ‘I’m right here.’

‘There’s something in the water,’ Will says, unable to tear his eyes from the shape unfolding in the depths of the river before him. ‘Dad…?’

‘Will…’ It’s not his father’s voice by his ear, but Hannibal’s. ‘Look at me.’

Will blinks, coming back to himself with a shiver. They’re in their apartment; a glittering array of rooms with views of the River Arno from every eastern window. The babysitter has gone, and they’re in the living room. Will has a carafe of brandy in his hand, two glasses before him, and he has removed his tux jacket and tie.

 _This isn’t my dream,_ he realizes, pouring amber liquid into crystal tumblers. _It’s Hannibal’s. He misses me._

‘We are among the palaces built six hundred years ago,’ Hannibal murmurs, gazing out at the beautiful architecture of his beloved city; ‘by the merchant princes, the king-makers and the connivers of Renaissance Florence.’

‘There are connivers of modern Florence,’ Will replies, stepping up beside him and handing him a glass of _grappa_.

Hannibal smiles and looks past him, to the frescoed walls and ceilings of cherubs and devils, ornate brass-work and windows leaded from centuries past.

‘I’ve found a peace here I would preserve,’ the Alpha admits, sipping his drink. ‘I’ve killed hardly anybody during our residence.’

‘You created a vacancy at the _Palazzo Capponi_ ,’ Will points out, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. He’s too warm. Is it fever? He wishes the cold water was back. ‘By removing the former Curator.’

‘A simple process,’ Hannibal brags. ‘Requiring a few second’s work on the old man. And,’ he adds, as an afterthought; ‘a modest outlay for two bags of cement.’

‘You no longer have _ethical_ concerns, Hannibal.’ Will shakes his head and sips his own drink, but he’s just as thirsty as before, his throat scratched and sore, his tongue too big for his mouth. ‘You have _aesthetical_ ones.’

‘Ethics become aesthetics,’ Hannibal muses, tipping his head back to admire the painting on the ceiling above them.

‘You seem more interested in _making_ appearances than maintaining them,’ Will growls, turning back to the Alpha. He’s angry; there’s a rage inside him that twists like a living thing. A serpent of hate.

_The snake ate me, and now I am the monster. Gored and eviscerated, twisted into something I don’t recognize._

‘If this is about my position at the _Palazzo_ ,’ Hannibal remarks; ‘once the path was cleared, I won the job fairly. On my merits.’

Will rolls his eyes, restless and irritable. He sets the brandy aside, since it does nothing to help him, and unbuttons the rest of his shirt, dragging the zipper of his pants down with a sound that is too loud in the suddenly brittle silence between them.

_I want my children. This isn’t real…_

‘Yes,’ he sneers. ‘Even the most _contentious_ Florentines can’t resist the verse of Dante ringing off the frescoed walls.’

He heads for the bathroom, swaying slightly, his head fuzzier than he’d expected, ears filled with the shrill beeping of an alarm. He hears his dad’s voice, muffled and far too close, and he tries to hold up a hand to ward him away.

‘What’s happening?’ Bill Graham demands, panic making him hoarse. ‘What’s _happening?’_

_Have the doctors drugged me, or is it something else?_

Water pours from the brass fish taps of the bathtub, but it’s too hot. It’s all too hot. Will is too hot; he just wants to cool down.

_Am I… in Heat?_

‘Put your head back,’ Hannibal whispers, guiding him into the bathtub, easing him down into the scalding water. ‘Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream.’

‘Hannibal…’ Will’s voice catches and he reaches for his Alpha. His arm twitches, water splashing, but he’s alone. He’s alone and it’s dark, it’s all dark.

_It’s dark on the other side. And madness is waiting._

He’s been here before. He doesn’t want to go back. He can’t go back. He can’t go back to that place; that dark, anchorless place. His babies need him…

The water closes in on him, tight as a strap. His neck flares with pain, even as razors slide through his skull, and Will can hear the desperate thumping of his heartbeat, fighting to stay alive.

_I’m still in conscious control of my actions… Today is a good day… You were supposed to leave… Hannibal…_

‘We’re losing him…’ A distant voice… Male, but not his father… They sound worried… It cuts through the dream and pain flares as he hears the blip of a heart monitor. ‘10ccs of Phenobarbital… Increase the nuchal pressure… Will, can you hear me? Will? Can you –?’

Will takes a deep breath and dips beneath the surface of the bath. Water flows up his nose, into his ears… It batters his eyelids, suffocating him.

He’s dying. His lungs are burning, too small for his body. His stomach cramps and all he tastes is blood.

 _There was so much blood_ …

The teacup shatters.

He sinks, fading, collapsing into the smallest pieces of himself.

‘No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.’

He remembers laughing with Hannibal in the motel room; the first meal they ever shared. Remembers kissing him in his office. Hannibal mounting him; claiming him after fighting Tobias for him. Hannibal, feeding him Abigail’s severed ear. Hannibal, locking him up to protect him up to protect Will from his darkness.

A thousand twisted demonstrations of love from a man too broken to function.

_I should have killed you when I had the chance._

‘A place was made for all of us.’

The teacup shatters.

‘Time did reverse,’ Hannibal murmurs, hugging him close as their bond collapses, the beautiful cherub-painted room of their memory palace fading forever. ‘The teacup that I shattered did come together.’

_The babies survived… They survived… I’ve held them. Fed them. Watched them sleep. Please… Please let me wake up so I can be with them._

He can’t leave. Can’t get away from that night. He clings to his Alpha, whimpering and crying as everything falls away from him.

‘Don’t… No, no, please,’ he begs, but Hannibal continues, heedless of his cries.

‘A place was made for Abigail in your world.’ A hand strokes his hair, scent thick with soothing pheromones to ease his pain. ‘Do you understand?’

 _I don’t. I don’t understand anything_. _I’m not here… I’m in the hospital… Please… Please say I’m in the hospital…_

Will shakes his head, his breath hitching as cold agony sweeps through him again. He’s dizzy, and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut as he hugs Hannibal with desperate abandon, silently screaming for him to stop, to please, _please_ just make it _stop_.

_I never wanted this._

‘A place was made for all of us,’ Hannibal whispers, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘Together.’

The teacup shatters.

***

‘“A soft and fluffy Velveteen Rabbit lived in a toybox in a Boy's room”,’ says Bill Graham, reading to both his comatose son and the two grandbabies sleeping in the crib beside him. ‘“Each day, the Boy opened the toybox and picked up Velveteen Rabbit. And Velveteen Rabbit was happy.”’

He sighs, rubbing at the stubble on his cheeks, and turns the page of the battered old children’s book; Will’s favorite story from childhood, and one of the few things given to him by his momma.

‘“Then newer, brighter toys came into the toybox,”’ he continues, his voice wobbling with emotion. ‘“They had special tricks. Some could move when the Boy pushed a button. Others bounced high. Velveteen Rabbit had no special tricks or buttons. No wonder the Boy started to choose these other new toys.”’

The blue lines of the EEG spike, exceeding the average parameters, and Bill pauses as the monitor sounds an alert. His own heart skips a beat, panic battling hope that, this time, Will might wake up.

Drawn from the shadows, using his father’s voice as a beacon in the darkness, Will fumbles his way out of the twisting, endless corridors of Hannibal’s memory palace. Retracing his steps through the paper-strewn office, he comes back to the hospital, back to his babies. Back to his life and his hope.

‘Hey, kiddo.’ Bill brushes more tears from his face as Will opens his eyes. His son’s gaze is distant and unfocused from the drugs, but there’s an awareness there that he hasn’t seen in weeks. ‘We’re just havin’ a bedtime story.’

‘The Velveteen Rabbit.’ Will smiles, his heart aching with love at the comforting presence of his dad. ‘I love that story.’

‘I know,’ Bill whispers. ‘So does Danny.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Will breathes, trying to reach for his dad’s hand, his lower lip wobbling and tears falling as he stares past the Beta to the vulnerable babies he’d abandoned again. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Hey, hey, it’s not your fault, kiddo.’ Bill sets the book aside and stands up. He bends over Will’s body, hugging him as best he can around the wires, and Will nuzzles up into the crook of his neck, comforting himself with the scent of Old Spice, smoke and whiskey. ‘None o’ this is your fault, son.’

‘I couldn’t stay,’ Will sobs, heedless of the fact that he’s crying like a child, crying as badly as the first time he went into Heat. ‘I can’t fight it, Dad. It’s too strong.’

‘You’re stronger, Will,’ Bill promises. He withdraws from the hug, hushing Will before he sets off another episode. He hands him a bunch of tissues from the side table, urging Will to dab his eyes and blow his nose. ‘You’re the toughest son’a’bitch I know.’

‘Was I in Heat?’ Will asks thickly, glancing up as a nurse enters the room with Dr Shapiro. ‘It felt like Heat.’

‘It was… a version of Heat,’ Dr Shapiro explains. ‘We think your visitor may have triggered a regression, so we’ve restricted guests back to immediate family only, for now.’

 _Abigail is my immediate family_ , Will thinks, but he’s too tired to argue. He just nods, and holds his Dad’s hand as he stares at his children.

‘I was with Hannibal,’ he says, hating the way his Pops flinches at the name. ‘I was _with_ him…’

_It felt real._

‘It’s common to relive certain events, or think about certain people, when you have PTSD,’ Dr Shapiro offers. ‘If you’re ready to talk about it, we have an excellent psychiatrist who specializes in Severed Bond Trauma.’

_Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Severed Bond Trauma. Is that all it is? Why can I feel him with me? Why does his presence still feel… good?_

‘My chest hurts,’ Will says, moving the conversation away from such dangerous waters. ‘And my throat.’

‘Your heart stopped,’ Dr Shapiro says. ‘And we had to intubate you again.’

‘Some recovery, huh?’ Will rolls his eyes at his own fragility, his own step backwards, but everyone in the room shakes their heads.

‘No, son,’ Bill says. ‘You brought yourself back. You always bring yourself back.’

‘I won’t lie to you, Will,’ Dr Shapiro adds. ‘You’ll likely experience mild forms of these episodes for the rest of your life. What you’ve gone through… well, many Omegas haven’t come back from what you’ve experienced.’

‘Should’ve stuck to fixing boat motors in Louisiana,’ Will mutters; an echo of a conversation before his mind was swallowed whole by a monster.

‘A boat engine is a machine,’ Hannibal had said. ‘A predictable problem, easy to solve. You fail, there’s a paddle.’

_Where is your paddle now?_

‘He was supposed to be my paddle,’ Will whispers, rubbing the blanket back and forth between his fingers. ‘Not run me ashore.’

_I’m still your paddle, Will. If you’ll let me._

‘You need to sleep,’ Dr Shapiro says, nodding for the nurse to guide a distressed-looking Bill Graham from the room. ‘It’s all going to be okay, Will.’

‘I know,’ Will says, his eyes slipping shut even as the doctor wheels his babies away. ‘I know it will.’

_Because I’m going to find him. Just as soon as I can._

***

THREE MONTHS LATER

A match flares, phosphorus burning bright in the darkness. Will turns his head, watching a nun light a prayer candle, and then he looks back up the aisle to the front of the Norman Chapel, to the altar and the crucifix above it.

‘Even in an enlightened world,’ he murmurs, speaking to the young Beta girl beside him; ‘we come here to feel closer to God.’

He’s wearing his glasses again; dark jeans, boots and a summer jacket. It’s nothing fancy; he’s back to his country staples, but the pockets are deep and it has silk sewn into the collar to protect his neck.

‘Do you feel closer to God?’ Abigail asks, grinning at him as Will drinks in the sights of the physical version of his Alpha’s memory palace.

_This is where it all began. The first room. The foyer. The mouth of my personal hell._

‘God’s not who I came here to find,’ Will whispers, and he moves on, walking ever closer to the front of the pews, drawn towards the skull graven into the floor.

 _Memento mori_.

‘Do you… believe in God?’ Abigail asks, tapping her palms against the sides of her legs. Churches make her uncomfortable, and she’d rather be back outside, sipping lemonade under the hot Italian sun.

‘What I believe,’ Will replies, ‘is closer to science fiction than anything in the Bible.’

‘We all know it, but nobody ever says that G/d won’t do a G/d-damned thing to answer anybody’s prayers,’ Abigail says, rolling her eyes at all the people with their hands clasped around them.

‘God can’t _save_ any of us,’ Will explains, turning to face his surrogate daughter. ‘Because it’s… _inelegant_.’ He smiles, his eyes flashing gold. ‘ _Elegance_ is more _important_ than suffering. That’s His design.’

Abigail smirks at him, her blue eyes like ice.

‘Are you talking about _God_ or _Hannibal?’_

Will’s cheeks flush pink and he sniffs a laugh at his own foolishness.

‘Hannibal’s not God,’ he mutters, hands bunched into fists in his jacket pockets. ‘He wouldn’t have any _fun_ being God.’ He looks around the chapel again and then turns back to Abigail with a knowing smile. ‘ _Defying_ God, now that’s his idea of a good time.’

His eye catches the skeleton on the floor; hands clasped together in prayer, faced upturned to the fresco of Jesus Christ and saints above it, eyes hollow and black.

‘Nothing would thrill Hannibal more than to see this roof collapse,’ Will adds, coming to stand directly over the memento mori. ‘Mid-mass… Packed pews, choir singing…’ His lips curl up into a feral smile. ‘He would _just_ love it.’

He looks up, examining the dome above them; the painted clay and ceramic, the pillars and wafer thin tiles supporting the arches.

‘And he thinks God would love it, too.’

As he watches, a hairline fracture creeps along the seams of the dome. Dust trickles from the wall and Will frowns, holding out his hand to catch the plaster.

_I collect church collapses._

‘Time to go,’ he says, brushing off his palm on his jeans. ‘We’ll come back tomorrow.’

‘Are we gonna call your dad?’ Abigail asks, falling into step beside him as they leave the crumbling ruin. ‘Can we Facetime the twins?’

‘Sure,’ Will says, fastidiously avoiding the gaze of a watching priest. ‘We’ll catch them before they head to nursery.’

‘Race you back to the hotel room,’ Abigail teases, skipping ahead to hail a cab. ‘And then _we_ are going out for pizza.’

***

That night, the Broken Man appears in the Norman Chapel.

The skin has been flayed, the bones broken and ribs crushed, limbs twisted and pinned. Impaled on three swords, the overall image is one of a human heart, perfectly balanced over the center of the skull graven into the floor.

 _Remember that you must die_.

The first Will hears about the murder is on the news. By the time he arrives back at the Chapel, the scene has been screened of by the polizia, officers and forensic investigators photographing and dusting the room for any trace of evidence.

The priest, the hem of his black robes stained with blood, speaks softly with a detective, but Will looks beyond them to the faint shadow of a heart-shaped tableau on the other side of the white curtain.

‘Is it him?’ Abigail asks, keeping behind him, as wary as a deer before a clearing.

Before Will can respond, the detective and the priest both look over, the priest pointing towards him. A police officer spots them in the doorway and jumps to intercept their entrance.

‘Per favore, signore,’ he says, shooing them away. ‘È proibito qui. La cappella è chiusa.’

‘Le Manna,’ the detective says, interrupting before the officer can evict his suspect. ‘Non lasciarlo uscire. Voglio parlare con lui.’

‘What did he say?’ Will asks, and an English-speaking inspector translates for him.

‘He said, he wants to talk to you. Now.’

_The police are looking to me for the crime? It’s definitely Hannibal._

***

He and Abigail are taken to the Palermo police headquarters; a beautiful building from Renaissance Italy, with vaulted ceilings, green marble floors and sweeping staircases.

It’s a bustling station, and Will sits, mostly ignored, whilst the detective completes the paperwork to begin his interview.

Left on a bench in the middle of homicide investigation desks, Will stares down at the cracks in the stone floor before him, resting his mind even as visions of gruesome tableaus flash past his eyes.

_What did he leave me? Who did he kill?_

His fingers twitch, working imaginary origami; folding and twisting the Vitruvian Man into an anatomically correct human heart.

‘Signor Graham…’

A rough voice drags him out of the delusion, and Will blinks, becoming aware of an older, Italian Omega sitting beside him.

‘Chief Investigator Renaldo Pazzi,’ the man says, introducing himself in thickly-accented English. ‘Questura di Firenze.’

‘You’re a long way from Florence,’ Will murmurs, acknowledging him without looking. He knows what he’ll see; a cheap suit, a worn overcoat scented with cigarettes and wine, tanned skin and silvering hair.

‘You’re a long way from Baltimore,’ Inspector Pazzi replies, and that does get Will’s attention. He frowns at him, and the other Omega offers him an apologetic shrug and a smile as he explains, ‘I read everything I can find on FBI profiling methods. I read _all_ about your incarceration.’

Will huffs. Great. A judgmental older Omega. Just what he needs.

‘Keep reading,’ he snaps. ‘I was acquitted.’

Inspector Pazzi turns in the seat, draping one arm over the back of the bench, and narrows gold-ringed eyes at him.

‘You come to Palermo,’ he says, ‘and soon, very soon, a body is discovered.’

_It looks suspicious._

‘The priest at the Cappella dei Normanni said you have been spending a lot of time there.’

‘I’ve been praying,’ Will lies, looking at him without lifting his eyes. He can’t take making a connection with anybody else right now.

Pazzi hums, cynical but refusing to dispute a man’s faith.

‘There is some comfort in prayer,’ he agrees. ‘It leaves you with the distinct feeling… you’re not alone.’

_Does he know?_

Will’s eyes flicker upwards, skirting Pazzi’s eyes, and he notices the manila file in his hands. Before he can ask anything further, though, the detective from earlier returns.

‘Signore.’ When Will glances up, the Alpha beckons to him. ‘Vieni con me.’

Will stands up, his belly writhing with nerves. Pazzi nods his farewell, and Will follows the detective into the depths of the station.

***

The interview is grueling but the detective has nothing to go on, and, after an hour of regurgitating the same information – no, he doesn’t know who the victim is, no, he doesn’t know who killed him, no, he’s only been in Palermo for two days, yes, he has an alibi for between the hours of midnight and six this morning – he is free to go.

Abigail is waiting for him in the foyer when Will finally descends the stairs. She smiles, leaning back against a marble pillar, her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. When Will sees Inspector Pazzi turn from chatting to an officer and make a beeline for him, Abigail rolls her eyes and walks away, leaving him to another difficult conversation.

 _Law enforcement_ , Will thinks, coming to a stop before the other Omega. _They’re all the same._

‘Is Will Graham here because of the body at the cappella,’ Pazzi muses, ‘or is the _body_ here because of Will Graham?’

‘Why are _you_ here?’ Will asks, adjusting his coat where it’s scratching against the stinging patch where his crest used to be.

‘I’m like you,’ Pazzi replies, shrugging. ‘I do what you do.’

_Mate to a psychopathic murderer and lose your mind?_

‘We share the Omegan gift of imagination,’ Pazzi explains, and Will frowns, curious about meeting someone else with as much empathy as him.

‘Yeah, well, I’ve got the scars of a man who grabbed his “gift” by the blade,’ Will mutters, making to move away.

Renaldo shakes his head.

‘You grabbed the wrong end.’

Will chuckles, a bitter sound, and Renaldo comes after him, stalking closer like a lion.

‘Those moments when the connection is made,’ he purrs, luring Will back like a siren to the rocks. ‘ _That_ is my keenest pleasure.’

_Mine, too._

Will holds very still, his forehead prickling with sweat, crest scar throbbing.

‘Knowing.’

‘Knowing,’ Pazzi agrees, and he utters a single, beautiful purr. ‘Not feeling, not thinking…’ He turns to Will with a sigh. ‘You _know_ who murdered that man and left him in the Cappella Palatina.’

‘Don’t _you_ know?’ Will replies, turning back despite himself, his hands pushed deep into his coat pockets. Renaldo wanders closer, shoe heels clacking on the floor, brown eyes ringed with the deep, honeyed gold of a long-mated Omega.

_Stable. Happy. Loved._

‘I met him,’ Pazzi says, saving Will from the trickle of water down the stairs. ‘Twenty years ago.’

_Alpha._

‘Il Mostro,’ the Florentine says, his scent sharpening with fear at the name. ‘The Monster of Florence. It was his custom to arrange his victims like a beautiful painting.’

_Everything he does is beautiful. Ugliness is despicable to him._

‘Il Mostro created images that stayed in my mind,’ Pazzi says, and Will can see the damage done to the other Omega. The horror of his encounter. The chilling beauty, wrapped around such evil. Pazzi pulls a couple of photographs from the manila envelope. ‘Twenty years ago, I was dwelling on a couple found slain in the bed of a pickup truck in Impruneta.’

He hands the image to Will, and the other Omega looks at a flawless scene. An Alpha and Omega, lying on their sides, posed before rigor mortis could lock their limbs in place, eyes pinned open to reveal the colors of their caste.

‘Bodies placed,’ Pazzi murmurs, ‘Garlanded with flowers…’

‘Like a Botticelli,’ Will says, and Pazzi’s eyes gleam.

‘ _Exactly_ like a Botticelli.’

Will’s reality slides away and he’s there, in a drizzling side street in Florence, staring down at his tableau. His art. His design.

_It was a Courtship… There just wasn’t an Omega to Court, at the time._

Twenty years ago, Will had experienced his first Heat.

‘His painting, “Primavera”, still hangs in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence,’ Pazzi says, and Will is once again dragged back to the present by the sound of his voice. ‘Just as it did, twenty years ago.’

The older Omega hands him a photograph of the painting, and the figures from the tableau are immediately recognizable.

‘The garlanded nymph on the right… Flowers streaming from her mouth… _match_.’

‘The Uffizi Gallery,’ Will says, his dark serpent uncoiling for the first time in months to scent the air. ‘That’s where you met “Il Mostro”?’

‘That’s where,’ Pazzi says, pulling a third, smaller photograph from the breast pocket of his coat. ‘I met _this_ man.’

Will’s world shrinks, the edges of existence closing in until _all_ he sees is the man in the photograph. Younger, smoother, but the same sharp cheeks, the same thin, cruel lips, the same dark eyes and soft, blond hair.

 _Hannibal Lecter_.

Hannibal.

Alpha.

Beloved.

‘The Monster of Florence,’ Pazzi says, as Will stares down at the father of his children; the Chesapeake Ripper and man who broke his mind. ‘Come,’ the older Omega says, taking him by the elbow. ‘I’ll drive you back to the cappella.’

***

They enter together, but it’s not the Chapel that Will sees. He’s in the Uffizi gallery, and the scratch of graphite pencil on paper replaces the ever-present trickle of water.

'Success comes as a result of inspiration,' Pazzi says, speaking over the sound of a young Hannibal Lecter sketching. ‘Revelation is the development of an image, first blurred, then coming clear.’

_Hannibal is obsessed with traditional art. He loves it. It inspires everything he does._

‘To find the inspiration Il Mostro used was a triumph,’ Pazzi says. ‘I went to the Uffizi and stood before the original “Primavera” day after day, and, most days, I’d see a young Lithuanian man as transfixed by the Botticelli as I was.’

Will can _see_ him; he can see Hannibal’s slender shoulders, less muscled at twenty-five but his waist just as sharp. The same regal posture, same aristocratic air to him as he draws the “Primavera” in the big pad on his knee.

‘As transfixed,’ Pazzi continues, ‘as I imagined Il Mostro would be… And, every day that I saw him, he would recreate the “Primavera” in pencil, _just_ as he did in flesh.’

Pazzi steps in front of him, blocking his view of Hannibal.

‘I _knew_ ,’ the older Omega says, and the light returns, the present day returns, and they are back in the Chapel. ‘It was the best moment of my life. A moment of epiphany that made me famous… and then ruined me.’

‘Ruined you?’ Will tilts his head, querying the dramatic statement, and Pazzi shrugs.

‘We are not so rigid as your America,’ the Italian Omega says. ‘But twenty years ago, the word of an Omegan Inspector was still a thing to be doubtful of. In the haste and heat of ambition, the Questura nearly destroyed the young Alpha’s home, trying to find evidence.’

Will snorts softly and walks around him, moving to belay the itch in his crest. The police station slides into the Norman Chapel; Pazzi

‘He doesn’t leave evidence,’ he says, and Pazzi nods bitterly.

‘No, he doesn’t.’

‘He eats it,’ Will adds, and Pazzi blanches. Will shrugs, lifting up the red and white-striped tape so he can move closer to the blood-stained skull.

‘Another man,’ Pazzi continues, watching him examine the crime scene, ‘not an innocent man, but innocent of _those_ crimes, was a dream suspect. He was convicted on no evidence except his caste and his character. A Beta, lower-class than the Alphas around him.’

Will sighs. He sinks down onto the marble steps before the altar, resting his elbows on his knees as he gazes somewhere around Pazzi’s midriff.

‘Blame has a habit of not sticking to Hannibal Lecter,’ he says wearily, thinking back to his own incarceration, his own claims falling on deaf ears.

‘Hmm.’ Pazzi nods, and lets himself under the tape to move closer. ‘It has a habit of sticking to _you_.’ He holds out the manila envelope, the contents of which he has retained until now. Will looks at him, wary, and then takes it, his fingertips tingling where they touch the paper.

Pazzi walks away, rolling a cigarette to ease his anxiety, leaving the American Omega and former mate of _Il Mostro_ to see his latest creation.

Once the footsteps have faded, Will takes a breath, bracing himself, and plucks the full-sized photograph from the envelope.

The craftsmanship is exquisite. He’d expect nothing less, but it still makes his heart skip a beat. Then, as the current rises, the darkness a warm comfort, Will’s pulse slows. It’s strong and steady, filling him with purpose.

_Thud. Thud-thud._

Will closes his eyes, slipping into shadow. Reality blurs, the room fades and he floats away from Palermo, away from his own mind into Hannibal’s memory.

_Alpha._

He’s not wearing his glasses in this place. This version of the Chapel is a version of Hannibal’s memory palace foyer. The tableau is there, and Will pushes himself up from the steps to walk around the offering.

‘I splintered every bone.’ His voice echoes in the emptiness of the hollow chamber. ‘Fractured them… _dynamically_. Made you malleable.’

_Almost as malleable as my beloved’s mind._

‘I skinned you.’ He can hear the rip of flesh as the epidermis leaves the inner layers, the knife working through muscle to the grunts and pants of a determined Alpha. ‘Bent you… Twisted you… And trimmed you.’ He looks at the origami work of flesh. ‘Head, hands, arms and legs...’ He laughs; a cold, twisted thing. ‘A topiary.’

The heartbeat is louder. Will can _see_ the glistening blood, congealing on the cooling skin, and he wants to touch it.

He steps closer, careful of the perfectly balanced body on the three swords, his hand outstretched.

‘This is my design.’

The beat stops the moment his fingers touch the heart. Pauses, and then restarts. Will’s throat closes around a lump and he feels tears dance in his golden eyes.

‘A valentine written on a broken man,’ he whispers.

The dream shifts. A serpent slithers through his mind, tugging at his sanity, and Will sees the sides of the heart move.

_Thud-thud. Thud-thud._

Fear licks its way up his spine, settling like a razor in his crest. Will tries to wet his lips but there’s no spit in his mouth; it’s all in his armpits and palms.

As he backs away, sensing that something is very, very wrong, the body shudders. One broken arm strains against the cording holding it in place. Ax it snaps, the arm pulls free. Another broken limb breaks the stitches holding it fast, then another…

A scream lodges on his tongue, and Will’s chest shrinks two sizes as the flayed man untwists himself from the pose, vertebrae popping and cracking as it realigns.

It’s a monstrous sight, like a nightmare flower blossoming. The body, still without hands, feet or head, resurrects its form, made all the more horrifying by the black antlers forcing their way through the holes at the ends of each limb.

A bloody hoof slams down onto the tiled floor and Will flinches, gasping in panic. He can’t make himself move; he can’t run away from what’s happening even though he wants to. He needs to. He needs to close his eyes but he can’t. Can’t do anything but watch as the swords drop away with a clatter and antlers grow like thorns from the stem of the neck.

_You can’t escape, Will. There’s no escaping what you are. What I made you._

The Ravenstag may have died, but this twisted, malevolent creature is what death has made of it.

It begins to approach, grotesquely misshapen, relentless in its pursuit. Will forces numb feet to move and stumbles backwards, instinctively seeking the safety of the altar, but no matter how fast he moves, the thing keeps coming after him, gaining on him faster than he can escape.

His heels hit the steps and Will falls backwards, landing hard and jarring his elbow. The antlers are nearly on him, the creature ready to pin him, suffocate him, gore him…

‘Will?’

Abigail’s voice drags him from the hallucination, and Will comes back to himself, sprawled on the steps of the altar, safe from the antlered nightmare and panting hard. What’s worse, though, are the strangled whimpers he can’t help but make; desperate mewls for his Alpha to save him, to comfort and protect him.

Curling over himself, he tucks his knees to his chest and drags his fingers through his hair, his breath steaming up his glasses and sweat mingling with the tears on his cheeks.

‘I _do_ feel closer to Hannibal here,’ he gasps, barking a mirthless laugh at his surrogate daughter. ‘God only knows where I’d be without him.’

_Sane. Safe at home in Wolf Trap… I wouldn’t have a hideous scar where my crest used to be. Wouldn’t have a smile across my abdomen. Wouldn’t have a tenuous grip on reality… But I wouldn’t have Gracie and Danny, either._

Tugging his glasses off, Will wipes at his damp face, feeling the itch in his eyes as the irises pulse gold with distress.

‘He left us his… er, his broken heart,’ he admits, throat choking around another whimper. Offering his daughter a small, sad smile, he sees only a puzzled frown in return.

‘How did he know we were here?’ Abigail asks, and Will shakes his head, ringing his hands until his knuckles turn white.

‘He didn’t.’ He shakes his head, his breath still shaking, tremors wracking his body. ‘But he knew we would come.’

Abigail’s eyes cloud over with grief.

‘He misses us.’

Will looks up at her, hesitating before shattering her illusions of love from the other man.

‘Hannibal follows several trains of thought at once,’ he explains. ‘Without distraction from any.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘One of the trains is always for his own amusement.’ He gives a shaky, breathy laugh, hardly able to believe that he can still find it in himself to forgive the Alpha for being so fucking selfish and cruel.

_When you have nothing and no-one, you center the world around your own desires._

‘He’s playing with us,’ Abigail says dryly, narrowing her eyes, and Will stares up at her, his gaze intense.

 _‘Always.’_ When Abigail pauses, shifting her weight from foot to foot, Will quirks an eyebrow. ‘Still wanna go with him?’

_Because if you do, like I do, you have to know exactly who you’re following. What you’re following._

Abigail sighs, and comes to sit beside him on the steps. She turns to face him, her lips curving into a tiny smile.

‘Yes.’

_We belong together._

Will stares across the chapel, not really seeing anything. He has his hands clasped loosely over his bent knees, his glasses dangling from one finger and thumb, body slowly cooling as his idea of reality reforms.

‘He gave you back to me,’ he murmurs, speaking to Abigail without looking at her. ‘Then he took you away.’ He lifts his eyes to the ceiling. ‘It’s Lucy and the football. He just… keeps pulling you away.’

_I loved that show as a kid… Now, it makes me feel sick to think of Charlie Brown, flat on his back, injured and betrayed by someone he thought he could trust._

A tear rolls down his cheek, splashing from his jaw to the marble tiles between his boots.

‘What if no-one died?’ he whispers. ‘What if… What if we all left together? Like we were supposed to.’ He sniffs, pressing his palms flat together in prayer. ‘After he served the lamb… Where would we have gone?’

Abigail smiles sadly.

‘In some other world?’

Will sniffs again, wiping his cheeks and offering her a crooked grin.

‘In some other world,’ he agrees.

‘He said he made a place for us,’ Abigail whispers, and Will can’t lie anymore. He can’t pretend. His shattered psyche is healing, and it’s time to let her go.

‘A place _was_ made for you, Abigail… In this world. It was the only place I _could_ make for you…’

Even as he watches, Abigail grows pale, her skin growing white and waxy. The healed scar on her throat darkens, a slice of red against the pale column of her neck, and blood begins to flow.

Neither of them make a move to stop it. It isn’t real, after all.

Will closes his eyes, blocking out the sight of his daughter, dying just as she did back in Hannibal’s kitchen, almost a year ago.

_I’m sorry. I can’t hold onto you anymore._

He’s alone in the chapel. He’d travelled to Italy alone. He calls the twins by himself, checking in on them and their grandfather every day.

But he’s searching for Hannibal by himself. Abigail Hobbs was fated to die in a kitchen, and Hannibal Lecter made that destiny a reality.

***

_Bellissimo._

Will’s pain has always been a thing of beauty. Hannibal could watch him suffer for hours, just as he could watch him climax with pleasure.

High above the altar, hidden behind a lattice-worked wooden screen, Hannibal stares down at his former mate, his Omega, his beloved.

Will sits, stoic and silent, on the steps of the Chapel, his scent still sour with fear over whatever hallucination had him crying out for his Alpha. It had been difficult, restraining himself from going to him, and Hannibal can feel the scratch of his shirt against the front of his throat as the skin reacts to the pheromones leaking from the other man.

 _Soon, my love_ , he thinks. _I’ll see you soon._

***

THEN

‘He’s breathing! I’ve got a pulse!’

Two paramedics lift the wounded Omega onto a stretcher, swallowing down vomit at the sight of his wounds. They fit an oxygen mask over his face, and Will cracks one eye open just enough to see Abigail, chalk-white and lifeless, being swallowed by a black vinyl chrysalis.

‘Baby,’ he manages, his voice barely audible. ‘My baby…’

‘Pregnant? Are you pregnant?’ The lead paramedic almost drops the stretcher in shock, and his partner snarls in fury at the blunder.

‘Get him in the ambulance,’ the Alpha demands. ‘Now!’

Will watches as the body bag closes over Abigail, the zipper sealing her in, stealing her away from him. His gut cramps, his pulse fluttering, and his mind surrenders to the darkness.

_I’m sorry._

***

The first round of surgery is brutal. Four trauma surgeons and two Omega specialists work on Will for more than ten hours, stabilizing his body enough to save the lives inside him.

His body is in shock, and they do everything they can to keep him warm, even as the heartbeats in his ruptured womb flutter and fade.

When he seizes, it takes an electric pulse placed directly into the mangled flesh of his nuchal tissue to sedate him, his tortured mind too far gone to respond to conventional drugs.

The damage is repaired, the twin fetuses secured and a coma induced.

It will be a long time before he wakes again. If he ever does.

***

NOW

Lying on his back, stretched out down the length of the altar steps, Will gazes up at the frescoed ceiling. He can hear water, slow and steady, and he basks in the current of his broken mind, savoring the shadows coalescing around his form.

He has no idea how long he’s been here. How long since his hallucination. He’s calm, now, and his pulse doesn’t change even when he hears Inspector Pazzi’s distinctive footsteps approaching once again.

‘Are you… praying?’ the other Omega asks, eyeing him doubtfully but respectful of another man’s belief.

‘Hannibal doesn’t pray,’ Will replies. ‘But he believes in God…’ His eyes flicker gold. _‘Intimately_.’

Renaldo frowns, unnerved by the flat, hard tone of the younger man.

‘I wasn’t asking Hannibal Lecter.’

_Are you that far gone? Are you one and the same, now?_

He lifts the tape and steps onto the scene, standing over the prone Omega.

Will sighs.

‘I think my prayers would feel… _constricted_ by the saints and apostles,’ he says, rising onto his elbows, throwing a sneer back over his shoulder. ‘And Jesus _Pantocrator_.’

_Almighty. All-powerful. Mankind’s judge._

‘How do _your_ prayers feel?’ he asks, pushing himself back up onto his feet.

‘I hope my prayers escaped,’ Pazzi replies. ‘Flown from here to the open sky and God.’

‘Praying you catch him?’ Will chews his tongue. ‘You should be praying _he_ doesn’t capture _you_.’

Pazzi sniffs a bitter laugh.

‘I didn’t head the Questura di Firenze for nothing,’ he says, turning to the young American.

Will bares his teeth at him.

‘You couldn’t catch him when he was just a kid; what makes you think you’re gonna catch him now?’

Pazzi smiles, his dark eyes gleaming.

‘You.’

Will turns away, following the sound of trickling water towards the gated pulpit under the stairwell.

‘What makes you think _I_ want to catch him?’ he murmurs, distracted by the scent of something elusive, something _delicious_ in the still air.

Pazzi says something, but the words blur and turn to meaningless sound – blood seeping over stone – as Will stares at the doors below. The flickering candlelight lends an ominous appearance to the entrance to the catacombs, but Will isn’t afraid.

 _He’s here_. _Alpha._

Blood begins to seep from underneath the wooden door, oozing across the tiles in time to the rhythmic thud of Will’s heart. His dark current rises, pressing against his legs, urging him forwards, and his crest tingles with unseen fingers brushing back and forth over the gnarled flesh.

‘If you could… _possibly_ be content,’ Will breathes, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of so much blood, so much death, but still desperate to warn the fellow Omega; ‘I would suggest you let _Il Mostro_ go.’

‘I can’t do that anymore than you can,’ Pazzi replies, watching with interest as the younger Omega stares at something only he can see; something both beautiful and frightening, judging by the salty tang to his scent.

Will turns to the Inspector.

‘He’s going to kill you, you know.’ When Pazzi doesn’t respond, Will shrugs. ‘I’m usually right about these things.’

‘He let you know him.’ Renaldo’s lip thin in distaste at the mere idea of someone mating with, bonding to, The Monster of Florence. ‘He sent you his heart. Where has he gone now?’

_Gone?_

Will smiles, his eyes flat and dead as a hunting shark’s.

‘He hasn’t _gone_ anywhere.’ He looks back towards the catacombs, and the locked door keeping him from his mate. ‘He’s still here.’

***

The catacombs beneath the chapel are flooded with bloody water. Darkness submerges the corridor and Will moves through the gloom like a diver exploring a sunken submarine, passing submerged corpses and guttering candles.

He floats in the gloom, holding his breath. His chest is tight, straining with air, the pressure rising until he can’t take it anymore.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut until a kaleidoscope of colors explodes across the lids and then –

He’s alright. He’s underneath the chapel, amidst mummified corpses and pumice stone, over two thousand years old.

Will listens, carefully monitoring his breath. He sees the walkway before him, weaving through the corpses, leading down into a darkened maze. Candles flicker in carved alcoves, infrequent and weak, barely able to hold back the shadows choking them. Will stays close to the walls, following the well-worn path deeper into the chapel’s crypts and catacombs.

In the distance ahead, he can hear unhurried footsteps, and the same scent is thick in the undisturbed air.

‘Hannibal.’

The footsteps stop as Will’s shout echoes along the passageways. He listens, straining to hear anything over the sound of his own breathing, but there’s nothing. No reply, only silence. After a moment, the footsteps resume their steady march.

_Fucking Alphas._

Will breaks into a run, heedless of the darkness blinding him. Behind him, his gun raised and safety off, is Renaldo Pazzi, pupils blown wide as he struggles to see in the gloom.

They race each other, two sets of golden eyes glowing in the blackness. Will darts left, then right, right again, pausing at another junction in the subterranean maze.

The room widens, supported by a series of pillars, each one adorned with mummified corpses wrapped in decaying robes, surrounded by passages branching off into different directions.

The clatter of footsteps changes and Will swings around, wild-eyed and breathing hard as he searches for the source of the sound. The shape of the gallery makes it sound like it’s coming from everywhere… It’s in front of him and behind him…

Arriving in the pillar room, Renaldo keeps his gun up, allowing it to lead him into the dim light of the gallery.

‘Signor Graham?’

A sound behind him makes him spin with a gasp, but years of training keeps him from firing without intention. Will Graham stands right where he had just been, calm and quiet, seemingly utterly at peace in the shadows.

‘You shouldn’t be down here alone,’ the young Omega says, and Renaldo feels the first flicker of fear since entering the crypt.

‘I’m not alone,’ he says warily. ‘I’m with you.’

Will smiles, his golden eyes downcast and face half in darkness.

‘You don’t know whose _side_ I’m on.’

Renaldo sighs through his nose, watching Will cautiously.

‘What are you going to do when you find him?’ he asks. ‘Your _Il Mostro?’_

_Your mate. Your Alpha._

‘I’m…’ Will looks over his shoulder, scenting the air and purring softly at the taste lingering like sugar on his tongue. ‘I’m _curious_ about that myself.’

Renaldo slides his gun back into the holster in his belt.

‘You and I carry the dead with us, Signor Graham,’ he murmurs. ‘We both need to unburden.’

Will’s resulting smile is as cold and dangerous as his eyes.

‘Why don’t you carry your dead back to the chapel?’ he suggests. ‘Before you count yourself among them?’

Renaldo sighs again, despair eating away his remaining strength.

There’s no argue with a madman.

‘You are already dead, aren’t you?’ He shakes his head. It’s such a waste. Such a loss.

Will’s eyes glow like suns at the end of time, the moment before the universe collapses in on itself. Withdrawing, he drifts back into the darkness.

‘Buonanotte, commendatore,’ he purrs, swallowed by shadows until nothing shows but the gleam of his teeth.

Obscured behind the stone, Hannibal waits, still and silent as a spider. He holds his breath, his body taut as a bowstring, watching and listening as Inspector Renaldo Pazzi takes one last look after Will.

_This way… Just a little closer._

But Renaldo Pazzi doesn’t approach him. Perhaps sensing the danger he is in, the danger that _Will_ presents to him, he turns and retreats back to the safety of the chapel above.

That leaves them, he and Will, alone together in the darkness.

Resuming the hunt, Will treads ever deeper into the maze. Unseen, Hannibal tracks him step for step, curious as to what he will do if he finds him. Will could divert from his path at any moment; they could cross paths at any second.

_Do you want to? Are you ready?_

The sound of water gets louder. Will growls, getting frustrated at the endless fucking twists and turns, desperate to just see his Alpha again. Hold him. Smell him.

‘Hannibal…’

The catacombs flood, water sloshing around his ankles. Will comes to a stop in another room filled with pillars and skulls, resigning himself to the fact that his Alpha, his mate, his _everything_ , won’t show himself.

_You broke my mind apart… Because you loved me. You tried to save me, the only way you knew how. Through pain and violence and deceit._

_I still love you._

Lifting his golden eyes to the ceiling, he emits a single, echoing purr, and then, before the sound can fade, whispers,

‘I forgive you.’


	3. Secondo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his quest to understand more about his former Alpha, Will travels to Hannibal’s childhood home in Lithuania, where he discovers a decades-old secret and meets Hannibal’s first unbonded Omega; Chiyoh. 
> 
> Jack Crawford arrives in Italy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps, sorry this chapter is as long as some of the others. I'm sure the wordcount will pick up again once Hannibal and Will are together! I'm so eager for them to reunite!!!

THREE

_Secondo_

The glug of Chianti into a crystal goblet breaks the silence pooling between them, and Bedelia Du Maurier stares down at the burgundy liquid waiting to soothe her nerves.

‘How was Palermo?’ she asks, almost scared of the answer she’s sure to receive. Hannibal is unusually pensive; sitting in an armchair before the ever-present fire, staring at a distant window with his dark eyes thickly ringed in crimson and scent roiling with arousal, anger and grief.

‘Will was there,’ he replies, and Bedelia can’t help but glance up in surprise. No wonder her fellow Alpha is so rattled. Try as Hannibal might to hide it, Will Graham always has an unsettling effect on him.

‘You're ruminating the way most of us look for a lost object,’ she comments. ‘We review its image in our minds and compare that image to what we see.’

Hannibal is reminded of his last supper with Will; their thinly veiled discussion of transformation and the ideality of a loved one.

_An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives._

‘Or don’t see,’ he muses, and Bedelia takes a calming sip of wine.

‘Was it nice to see him?’ she asks, uncertain of the answer she will receive. How, after all, is Hannibal feeling – a man with a flawed sense of emotion – after seeing the Omega to whom he bonded, created a child with… The Omega he then Cut, certainly destroying all chance of a successful pregnancy.

_It would have been kinder to kill him._

‘It was nice,’ Hannibal murmurs, his knuckles turning white as he clenches his fist near his chin. Very deliberately, he lowers his hand to his thigh and smooths out a crease in the fabric of his trousers, irritated by the spark of his gold wedding ring. ‘Among other things.’

_It was nice. It was painful. It was cathartic but now I want more. I want him back, but I don’t know if I can ever trust him again. If I can ever love him again. And he I._

‘He knew where to look for me,’ he comments, and Bedelia narrows her eyes, curious as to the bond seemingly still connecting the two men.

‘You knew where he would look for you,’ she says, remembering Hannibal’s fevered, almost desperate need to take Anthony Dimmond’s body to Palermo.

Hannibal’s eyes flicker crimson, shining with unshed tears.

‘He said he forgave me,’ he whispers, his voice catching on the enormity of it. Will, with his boundless love and endless empathy… His sympathy and understanding… How could he ever have hoped to be worthy of such a man?

_I killed our family, our children, but he knows why and he found the strength within himself to forgive me… In a way I couldn’t forgive him._

‘Forgiveness is too great and difficult for one person,’ Bedelia says, watching the turmoil on Hannibal’s face. ‘It requires two. The betrayer, and the betrayed.’ As she speaks, she leans her weight against the armrest of the second chair, looking down at the grieving Alpha with the wary concern his violence demands. ‘Which one are you?’

_Will betrayed me, made me believe he loved me as I truly am… But the things I did to him… My motivations may have been kind but my methods…_

Hannibal’s chest spasms with a sharp, uncomfortable realization. He hates that his darkness has hurt Will. He wants to be a better person for him, but he doesn’t know how and the helplessness, the feeling of being trapped, is suffocating.

‘I’m vague on those details,’ he says, forcing his voice to remain calm, his expression detached, even as his mind reels and his pulse races.

Bedelia watches as the man, the psychopath, before her, experiences his first true sense of regret, and when she speaks again, she pitches her voice low and soft.

‘Betrayal and forgiveness are… best seen as something akin to falling in love.’

She takes another sip of wine, watching as Hannibal digests this new information.

_Falling in love… Is that what this is? Do I love Will Graham? I thought I did… but what is this feeling now?_

‘You cannot control, with respect, to whom you fall in love,’ he murmurs, eyes downcast and fingers fiddling with the wedding ring.

_I wish Will was the other person wearing it._

Bedelia watches, fascinated by the effect one Omega has had on such a previously steadfast Alpha, before she says,

‘You are going to be caught. It has already been set into motion.’

Hannibal glances at her, sharp and cold.

‘Is that concern for your patient, or concern for yourself?’

Bedelia smiles; a cool, dismissive twist of her lips.

‘I am not concerned about me,’ she says. ‘I know _exactly_ how I will navigate my way out of… whatever it is I have gotten myself into.’ She pauses, narrowing her eyes when Hannibal smiles at her fortitude, and then asks, ‘Do you?’

Resuming his examination of the dancing flames in the hearth, Hannibal considers his plan, his escape money and his house in Argentina.

‘I did.’

He won’t leave until Will has found him. Until he is reunited with his Omega. One last time.

Bedelia sighs, bemused by the strange relationship between the two men. It’s like nothing she’s ever seen before, and she’s grateful her own sanity isn’t mingled with their twisted affections.

‘Where will Will Graham be looking for you next?’ she asks, drinking more wine to silence her racing thoughts.

Hannibal’s heart skips a beat and he smells pine needles, black mud and moss when he next takes a breath.

‘Someplace I can never go…’

_Home._

***

The foyer of Hannibal’s Memory Palace is the Normal Chapel in Palermo, but that is not where construction began. The door to the Memory Palace itself is in the darkness at the center of his mind, and has a latch that can be found by touch alone.

To find the center of this maze, and the heart of his former Alpha, Will needs to travel backwards, through time and space to a point before the Chesapeake Ripper or _Il Mostro_ ; before the Parisian boarding school and the orphanage.

He needs to see the catalyst. There’s so much blood between then and now. A history seeped in pain, built on the suffering of others. He needs to know why.

_Do you even know how much damage you’ve done?_

The darkness is hot, and Will’s boots splash through a crimson river. The current is there, ever-present, always tugging at the frayed edges of his mind, constantly seeking a loose thread to pull at until his sanity unravels once again. Whispers taunt him, encouraging him to follow them into the darkness, to lose himself as a sailor might sink his ship on a siren’s rock, but he can fight it. He can stay whole and tethered, certain in his pursuit of knowledge.

_I won’t find what I’m looking for in my mind. I have to stay grounded._

His shadow turns, eyes gleaming, and then winds its way upwards, entering the world.

_We’re here._

Will cuts the engine of his rented car, soaking up the silence of the Lithuanian countryside. It’s a cold, dismal day. Gunmetal clouds hang low, threatening rain and, in the distance, thunder rolls. Crows caw, reminding him of the field kabuki and Cassie Boyle’s body, but Minnesota is thousands of miles away and there’s a lifetime between then and now.

A pair of wrought-iron gates bar his path, chained and padlocked from the inside, snaking with vines and ivy, the stones green with moss.

The scent of pine-needles and black mud fills his nostrils when Will steps out, and his boots splash into a puddle from the recent downpour.

He collects his satchel and approaches the gates. The iron crest on each gate is rusted, etched with lichen and crusted with filth, but he can see read the carved words encircled with stags, swans and a snake.

_Lecter Dhvaras._

The Manor was built by Hannibal the Grim in 1410, using captured soldiers for labor. On the first day his pennant flew from the completed towers, Hannibal’s ancestor had assembled the prisoners in the kitchen garden and released them to go home, just as he had promised. According to the public records, which Will had managed to track down during his final weeks of recuperation at Stonebarrow, many of the freed men had elected to stay in Hannibal’s service, owing to the quality of the provender.

Now, the imposing manor house lies in ruin; a crumbling echo of its former glory. Staring between the bars of the gates, Will studies the empty grounds stretching ahead of him; the unkempt driveway and wild brambles overgrowing the lawns. The woods seem to lean in; threatening both the manor and Will. It reminds of the fairytale he’d read to the twins, the last night before leaving them.

_The brave knight approached the dragon’s lair, his sword at the ready, knowing the sleeping princess was inside, waiting to be rescued._

He needs to know. He needs to understand, no matter how painful it is.

Reaching down, he gives the chain a sharp tug, hoping it’s just as rusted and weak as the gates. But the padlock is new; gleaming steel and too strong for him to break. Will huffs to himself, stepping back and studying the walls to either side of the gates. There’s a tree stump nearby and a missing spike above; the perfect space for him to scale and get up and over.

Once inside, he keeps to the tree line, ducking and dodging branches and cobwebs, making his way towards a small hunting cottage sitting in the manor’s shadow, dwarfed by the imposing walls.

Raindrops begin to fall, fat and heavy on his face. Will peers in through one of the murky windows, studying the rustic, shadowed interior, and then tries the door.

Bolted.

Walking away, he circles the lake to the east of the cottage, watched closely by a pair of black swans gliding across the dark surface of the water.

_Hannibal used to feed the swans bread when he was a child. He used willow branches to augment his wingspan and intimidate the male every time it challenged him._

Will pulls a granola bar from his satchel. Crumbling it between his soft leather gloves, he tosses the offering out to the birds, smiling as they swim forwards to retrieve the food.

_For the child lost._

A narrow footpath leads him to the family cemetery. The railings are collapsing, slowly engulfed by ivy, and the grass has been left to grow wild, swallowing the small headstones from centuries past.

Only one tombstone remains clear. Freshly tended, carefully weeded and free of the ever-present lichen and moss. Fresh-cut flowers sit in the offering vase, bright against the drab, dull day, and Will’s heart skips a beat when he reads the carved name on the stone, confirming his suspicions.

_Mischa Lecter. Mylima._

‘Beloved,’ he whispers, remembering Hannibal calling him something similar.

Loved. Special. Honored.

Betrayed.

It’s time to go back.

***

Will settles himself in a clearing, with a good eyeline of both the manor house and the cottage. Using binoculars, he keeps himself at a safe distance, and settles down into the soft comfort of Hannibal’s black leather therapy chair.

The current warms him, whispering over his arms, through his chest and up into his skull, slithering like a caress through his hair.

_Alpha…_

‘It’s not healing to see your childhood home,’ Hannibal says. ‘But it helps you measure whether you are broken. How and why; assuming you want to know.’

They are sitting across from each other; Hannibal in his plaid suit and blue shirt, Will in his jeans, navy overcoat and cotton shirt. Their chairs are further apart; more like their first session together, and Will feels the distance between them like a knife.

‘I want to know,’ he replies, lips thinning as he considers the monster hidden inside the man before him. Then, after a moment, he nods towards the manor. ‘Is this where construction began?’

Hannibal looks with him, seemingly undisturbed but his hands gripping each other in his lap more tightly than before.

‘On my Memory Palace?’ He smiles at Will, his eyes sparkling. ‘Its door at the center of my mind… And here you are, feeling for the latch.’

Will frowns, considering the hallucination of his lover, his partner, his mate.

_Former mate._

‘The spaces in your mind devoted to your earliest years,’ he asks, searching for the right words. ‘… are they different than the other rooms?’

The scene changes; the woods are replaced by tall windows, flanked by red and grey curtains. The carpet of leaves becomes hardwood flooring and the view of the manor becomes the fireplace and Hannibal’s desk. When Will speaks again, his voice echoes.

‘Are they different than this room?’

‘This room holds sound and motion,’ Hannibal replies, considering the office around him. ‘Great snakes, wrestling and heaving in the dark. Other rooms are static scenes; fragmentary. Like painted shards of glass.’

As he speaks, Will imagines him, barely held together, great spaces of blank plaster between his formative years.

‘Everything keyed to memories,’ the Omega says, his own perception distorted by the fractures, his own mind as cracked and misaligned. ‘Leading to other memories.’

‘In geometric progression.’ Hannibal smiles; pleased to share his success with the other man.

Will wets his lips, his shadow scenting the air for weakness.

‘The rooms you can’t bring yourself to go… Nothing escapes from them that causes you any comfort.’

‘Screams fill some of those places,’ Hannibal agrees, working to keep his voice neutral. ‘But the corridors do not echo screaming… because I hear music.’

The room shivers. Shatters. The shards splinter through Will’s brain, wrenching him back to reality with a throbbing headache.

 _That was a gunshot_.

Another two shots are fired in quick succession, and Will grabs his bag from the ground. He runs towards the sound, eager to know who is hunting on Hannibal’s land, hoping it isn’t poachers or stray Alphas seeking unoccupied territory.

As he approaches another clearing, Will slows, dropping to a crouch behind a fallen tree and peering out from between the twisted bark.

A young woman appears from the tree-line. Steely-eyed, dressed in dark clothes and carrying a large rifle. She is Japanese; her glossy black hair pulled back into a tight, functional bun, her dark eyes flashing gold as she pauses on the other side of the clearing.

 _Omega_.

Will gets his binoculars up and brings the approaching woman into focus. She’s looking towards his location but not directly at him. What is she doing?

The Omega brings the rifle up, taking aim, and then a pair of pheasants explode from the bushes to the left. The woman turns, expertly following their panicked flight, and two shots ring out as she clips them both.

The birds fall, ungainly in death, and land with dull thumps on the earth.

Will watches, his heart pounding, as the other Omega takes aim at his location again.

_How can she know I’m here?_

Withdrawing into the shadow of the woods, Will holds his breath and waits. Silence greets him, encloses him. He is a spectral presence, unmoving and unheard.

_Nothing’s wrong… There’s nothing wrong here._

The other Omega lowers the rifle, unable to see anything through the scope. She waits, searching the woods for whatever is off in this place she knows so well…

Sighing, she moves on and collects her game, leaving Will to stare after her, his shadow dancing in his eyes.

_Who are you?_

***

Beautiful, colorful barbs fan out from the rachis, fanning out into multiple feathers, which fan out into a wing. Slender fingers intertwine with the feathers, pulling. The pheasant’s skin peaks, pulled by the quill, and then retracts as it separates.

Fine, fuzzy down floats within beams of faint light, bobbing in the air current, drifting to lie amidst a dozen other feathers already gathering dust on the floor. The young Omega works diligently, breaking down the birds, surrounded by other pheasants hanging to cure, strings of garlic and bunches of rosemary.

Will lowers his binoculars, his irises glowing like molten gold as he watches the young woman at work. She has a quiet, sophisticated air to her, her movements certain and precise. He watches again as, with a cleaver, she removes a still-feathered wing from the pheasant’s body with a succinct chop. There’s a second chop and the other wing falls to the floor, spattering blood on the stone.

_Hannibal taught her to chop like that. He severs limbs in the same way._

Will can see him; his Alpha, navy shirt sleeves rolled up, a glass of Chardonnay gleaming beside him. Several days ago, Hannibal had removed the hand from a forearm, sliced the top layer of the skin off the muscle and rubbed it with salt, seasoned it with herbs and then hung it over a heater to cure.

As the flesh had darkened and dried, the fatty layer had turned white, just like Parma harm, and Will knows that Hannibal has spent the grater part of the afternoon slicing the meat into feathers. The Alpha has then layered them to form what looks like an angel wing, garnishing the platter with bunches of grapes, leaves and his ever-present pomegranates, which add a splash of lurid red to the dish. could then be sliced into feathers and shaped to form a wing.

Will carries the dish through to the dining room, setting it down at the end of the table opposite Hannibal, who is using an ice pick to smash, with brutal decision, a slick, clear block of ice into chips.

Professor Sogliato, relaxing as their guest of the honor, reaches for a feather of meat, peeling it off the bone and eating it with a stuffed olive from the bowl beside him.

‘Such a _pity_ that Signore and Signora Albizzi could not be here tonight,’ he says, his voice dripping with cold sarcasm. The lie, and all its rudeness, is evident in what he does not say. ‘I do hope you don’t feel… _snubbed_ by their rejection of your invitation.’

‘The _Studiolo_ is a small, fierce group,’ Hannibal replies, allowing the smaller Alpha to believe he has been beaten. ‘They’ve ruined a number of academic reputations.’

‘Appearing before them is a peril,’ Sogliato agrees, inspecting another sliver of meat before eating it with relish.

‘You were _very_ eager to see me discredited, Professor Sogliato,’ Hannibal says, scooping the ice into three cocktail glasses. When he glances up at his guest, the Italian Alpha chuckles at the accusation.

‘You sang for your supper before the dragons at the _Studiolo,’_ Sogliato concedes, though his eyes remain steely black and cold. He disapproves, still.

‘And you sang very well,’ Will murmurs, as Hannibal now pours a mixture of champagne, white wine, rum, syrup and orange juice onto the ice in the glasses.

Professor Sogliato claps sarcastically.

‘Yes. First applause, and then by wet-eyed acclamation.’ He scoffs. ‘The membership’s affirmed you as _master_ of the Palazzo Capponi.’

Adding bitter orange curls to the top of the cocktail, Hannibal announces the drink.

‘Punch Romaine.’ He gives the first glass to Will, who smiles up at him in thanks, admiring the beautiful drink. ‘A cocktail created by Escoffier. Served to first-class guests on the Titanic during their last dinner.’

_What are you up to, Hannibal?_

Will watches as his mate gives the second glass to Professor Sogliato, his belly twitching with excitement as Hannibal moves behind the smaller Alpha.

Sogliato takes a sip, humming his pleasure at the refreshing taste. He offers Will a greasy, lying smile, and holds up his glass in a toast.

‘The committees have a new curator,’ he says. ‘They do not miss the old one.’

Will holds his glass up to mirror the toast, and they both drink. Hannibal helps himself to feathered meat from the platter, refusing to allow the matter to rest so easily. Sogliato, after all, is a threat.

‘If my victory pleased the _professore_ , I could not tell,’ he says, and Sogliato sets the glass down on its silver saucer with a sigh.

‘Then you weren’t paying attention,’ he replies, somewhat waspishly. Hannibal, moving behind him once again with a small plate of meat, olives and bread, glances at Will as he says, quietly,

‘I pay lots of attention.’ He sets the plate down at his place at the head of the table and reaches for the icepick. ‘But not in a wide-eyed, indiscriminate way.’

With deadly speed and accuracy, he stabs Professor Sogliato through the temple, perforating his frontal cortex. The smaller Alpha chokes, unable to process what has just happened to him. He freezes, his hands twitching and bladder releasing itself to trickle down the chair leg.

Will stares, shocked by the sudden change of events, and Hannibal seats himself with a sigh.

‘That may have been impulsive,’ he admits, tilting his head to his Omega in apology.

Will sips the cocktail, ice clinking against his teeth as he fights back a growl at his Alpha’s recklessness.

‘Been mulling that impulse ever since you decided to serve Punch Romaine?’ he replies, knowing full well that the nod to the Titanic’s last cocktail was a nod to Sogliato’s similarly dire situation.

_Ever since Professor Sogliato snubbed you before the committee at that party, his days have been numbered. How convenient that the Albizzis believe their dinner is tomorrow._

The Italian Alpha continues to stutter and gasp at them. His eyes flood red, the irises shimmering around fixed, dilated pupils.

‘I…’ Sogliato smiles, unable to comprehend his new reality. ‘I can’t see.’ He giggles and then splutters, brow creasing into a perplexed frown. ‘Mi ricordo che il curatore…’

He giggles again and then chokes. His body is beginning to die but it will take time. It’s cruelty for cruelty’s sake, and Will has had enough.

Grabbing his napkin, he rises from his seat opposite the suffering man and, grasping the handle of the icepick firmly, yanks it out.

Professor Sogliato chokes one last time and a great spurt of blood and clear fluid leaves his skull. A moment later, he collapses, face-first, into his plate of food.

Hannibal, busy eating, grins up at his partner.

‘Technically,’ he says, ‘ _you_ killed him.’

As the Italian’s blood seeps across the silver plate of olives, drowning the antipasti and spilling out across the crisp white linen of the tablecloth, Will turns to his mate. He’s no longer wearing the smart burgundy suit imagined by his former Alpha, but the navy overcoat and jeans of his actual outfit.

‘No longer interested in preserving the peace you’ve found here?’ he asks, coolly disapproving.

Hannibal merely shrugs and adds another sliver of human flesh to his mouthful.

‘You cannot preserve entropy,’ he replies. ‘It gradually descends into disorder.’

‘Two men from the _Capponi_ are dead,’ Will says, and he can hear Bedelia Du Maurier’s voice even as, through Hannibal’s eyes, he sees himself speaking the words.

_This is your fantasy. You want me to be there with you, instead of her. My absence is a physical pain in your chest._

Hannibal takes a long, sumptuous sip of his cocktail.

‘I can only claim one. Technically.’

Will looks down at the arrogant, disinterested Alpha. The sharp exterior, the confidence he portrays… It is an act. A front designed to cause chaos and inspire fear.

‘You’re drawing us to you,’ he murmurs, cautiously optimistic. ‘Aren’t you? All of us.’

_Me. Alana. Jack._

It’s all starting to come together. But who will reach him first?

***

Special Agent Jack Crawford removes his fedora as he enters the Norman Chapel in Palermo, Italy. The church is beautiful, but it may as well be a mausoleum for the way it now feels.

_Hannibal Lecter has corrupted this place. He murdered an Omega and displayed his mutilated corpse here, before the altar. That can never be undone._

The photographs of the crime scene are shocking. The skill with which the broken body has been twisted and re-formed into a heart is impressive but sickening.

Inspector Renaldo Pazzi, respectful of the more experienced Alpha from the FBI, comes to sit quietly beside him, having given Jack twenty minutes to absorb the crime details in silence.

‘As with his crimes in Florence,’ Pazzi says, ‘ _Il Mostro_ collected anatomical trophies, but left no evidence.’

‘Dr Lecter _is_ careful,’ Jack agrees, the scar on his throat itching at the memory of their fight, so many months ago. ‘He _will_ strike,’ he warns, ‘but his needs don’t force him to strike often.’

‘There were long periods when _Il Mostro_ didn’t strike at all,’ Inspector Pazzi confirms. ‘This is the first in twenty years.’

Jack glances at him, sensing something more than the Omega’s words bely.

‘You have new evidence.’

Inspector Pazzi nods, his eyes glowing with the rich, deep gold of an Omega long-bonded.

‘You know,’ he muses, ‘the window of the Questura laboratory is garlanded with garlic. To keep out the evil spirits.’

Jack shakes his head, scoffing a laugh at such superstitious nonsense, and Renaldo Pazzi nods his agreement at the childish fears.

‘These are not people open to new ideas,’ he admits. ‘It took them four hundred years to allow Omegas to join the _polizia_. My city mocks me. My hunt for _Il Mostro_ has let the crows peck at my heart.’ When Jack nods his understanding, the Omega smiles sadly, sensing his pain. ‘How is _your_ heart?’

Jack considers the question, and all that he’s been through.

‘Well pecked,’ he admits. He rubs at the greying beard on his cheeks. ‘If he hasn’t already, _Il Mostro_ will return to Florence.’

Renaldo Pazzi straightens, his eyes gleaming in the low light.

‘Come back with me,’ he urges. ‘We have a chance to regain our reputation, and enjoy the honors of our trade by capturing the Monster.’

Jack considers it, but then he sighs and shakes his head. He can’t. As much as he might want to, that’s not the promise he made.

‘I’m not here for the Monster,’ he says, and he thinks of Bill Graham’s voice; hoarse with worry after he’d learned of his son’s disappearance.

_Bring him back safe. Please. Bring my boy home._

Jack had made a promise, and he would do everything in his power to honor it.

‘ _Non_ _è_ _la mia case,_ ’ Jack murmurs. ‘Not my house; not my fire. I’m here for Will Graham.’

‘Are you… his Alpha?’ Inspector Pazzi asks, confused as he’d suspected that Mr Graham was mated to _Il Mostro_. Or, at the very least, Courted by him.

‘No.’ Jack sighs, thinking of everything they’ve been through over the years. ‘But I am responsible for him. I’m the closest thing to an Alphan guardian he has left.’ He stands up, hat in hand. ‘Besides,’ he adds, ‘I gave my word to his father. And Betas hold grudges.’

***

Shadows reach high, dancing away from the light of a low fire burning amidst dripping woods. Hunching as close to it as he can, Will rubs his hands together and huddles inside his coat, shivering with cold.

The pop and crack of burning twigs only serves to emphasize how silent the woods are, and how alone he is. But Will doesn’t feel alone. The back of his neck prickles with unseen eyes, and, separate to the sound of the fire, there is the snap of a twig breaking under pressure.

Someone’s out there. Someone… or something.

Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, Will shines a light on the Stygian darkness. Skeletal branches and pale trunks stare back at him, sinister in the gloom. Brambles crisscross the spaces, giving the appearance of antlers.

_The wendigo._

Kicking dirt over the fire, Will sets off in search of his monster, tramping over mulch and parting branches to make room. All he can hear is his breathing, rushing in and out of his lungs, a roar above the thump of his pulse.

And then a branch breaks again, deafening in the silence. Will jumps, spinning around, sweat beading on his forehead as he strains to see beyond the narrow strip of light.

Is there someone else here, besides him and his demon?

His path takes him deeper into the trees. Will has just lowered his torch when he sees a blinking glow, there and then gone. There’s a pause and then another, and another, drifting upward and then disappearing.

Will moves toward the direction of the light, curious.

It’s a firefly imago. The insect closest to him sheds its cocoon, spreads its new wings and takes to the night air, glowing.

Following the insects, Will steps from the trees near the forest's edge. Moonlight penetrates the trees, filtering down enough silvery light for him to see that he’s standing in a clearing, once carefully tended, with low walls and steps; now overcome with moss and vines.

_It’s a secret garden._

Beautiful; like a dream or a fairytale, the garden is magically lit by a swarm of fireflies. They rise in a tight spiral from the ground, like a loose tornado of orange motes, and Will kneels beneath him, bending one leg to study the pale-shelled snails oozing their way across the basin of a bronze angel statue.

A cochlear garden. The shelled gastropods leave glistening trails of slime as they move carefully across the red-painted outline of a child’s hand, and Will’s chest tightens as he traces the decades-old mark with his leather-gloved fingers.

_Mischa liked to play here. In Mother’s garden._

Rising to his feet, he backs away, leaving the space once more undisturbed. Another tomb for the remembered dead.

He’ll find no answers here.

***

A match-head rasps along the rough edge of the box, striking a flame that quickly burns yellow. An oil lamp soon takes the fire, glowing softly and gently illuminating the face of the young Japanese Omega carrying it.

The pheasant, plucked and chopped to size, has been roasting in the oven for a couple of hours. Now, skin golden and fat sizzling, it is pulled from the stove to rest on the chopping board.

A fresh cleaver swings down, chopping the bird in half. Will watches, hidden behind trees, as the younger Omega wraps a portion in parchment and then pockets it, leaving her hands free to hold the lantern and rifle.

She leaves the cottage, tramping through the darkness with the ease of familiarity towards the manor house.

Silent as a specter, Will flits from shadow to shadow in pursuit of her. A rusted window latch gives access to the house, and he watches from behind a vine-choked staircase as the lantern light bobs with each of the Omega’s light footsteps, disappearing down into the bowels of the house.

Once the lantern has disappeared from view, Will clicks on his flashlight and descends the stairs, grimacing at the occasional crunch of a snail crushed beneath his boot, unsure if the sound of water trickling down walls is real or only in his mind.

It might be real. The room he’s breached is dank and cavernous, with large glass vats and wine presses. Bottled wine lies in neat rows, each rank holding a dozen or so containers. The ceiling drips from the recent rain and more water flows beyond a large sewer drain. The snails have crisscrossed the walls and floor; their glistening trails sprawl like runes and mystic incantations over the stone surfaces, reflecting in the narrow beam of Will’s torch.

Another crunch, but not shell this time. Will bends, frowning, and his gloved fingers close around a narrow bone.

_Human? Or something else?_

‘Kas ten? Labas?’

A hoarse, rasping voice; an Alpha long past his prime. A man who has forgotten how to form words from years of silence. Will’s crest prickles and his heart forgets to beat as he swings the flashlight towards an iron gate.

Not a gate. The door of a prison cell.

Will lifts the light, illuminating the dank, straw-covered floor. There are more bones inside, and dead rats. The bars are decorated with handmade trinkets and dolls made of bird bones, snail shells and twine. Feces overflows from the bucket in the corner and the Alpha himself is smeared with it.

His eyes are feral red, his fangs overly long inside such a gaunt, haggard face. His hair is matted filth, his genitals covered by a soiled loincloth and fingernails curving into claws.

He’s been here for years. Alone. In the dark. Slowly going mad.

‘ _Atsiliepk, kalbek prasau, prasau, prasau_ ,’ the Alpha begs, pressing his ghoulish face to the bars. Tears trickle down his face, cutting stripes in the dirt on his skin. _‘Ji su manimi nekalba. Ji niekada su manimi nekalba! Prasau!’_

Will narrows his eyes, lost as to what the man is saying. He recognizes the language – Lithuanian – but they are no words Hannibal has ever spoken to him, so he doesn’t know them.

A block of ice shivers down his spine at the tell-tale click of a gun being cocked. Careful to move slowly, raising his hands in surrender, Will turns to face the Japanese Omega he had been stalking.

The young woman frowns at him, her eyes blazing gold down the length of the rifle.

‘You’re upsetting him.’

At the sound of the Omega’s voice, the caged Alpha cowers away. He retreats into a corner, hugging his knees to his chest, rocking and muttering his pleas.

Ignoring her prisoner, the Japanese woman frowns at Will.

‘You’re trespassing,’ she warns, her gloved hands steady on the trigger of the gun. Will has no doubt that she will shoot him if she thinks she needs to.

‘I’m… a friend of Hannibal’s,’ he replies, his voice echoing in the chamber, deeper and richer than his female counterpart.

The other Omega pauses, though her aim never falters.

‘He sent you?’

‘My name is Will Graham,’ Will replies, wondering if she knows who he was – who he _is_ – to the Alpha within whose ancestral home she lives. ‘I’m unarmed… May I lower my arms?’

Without waiting, Will begins to lower them, and the other Omega indicates with the shotgun barrel to keep them where they are.

‘This trigger has a three-pound pull,’ she replies. ‘I’m holding two of it.’

Will lifts his arms back to where they were, ignoring the ache in his shoulders. The itching vulnerability of having his chest and midriff exposed to a bullet.

Behind him, the Alpha raises his voice to beg again.

_‘Atsiliepk, kalbek prasau.’_

‘What’s he saying?’ Will asks, irritated that he doesn’t understand.

‘He wants you to look at him,’ the other Omega says. ‘Speak to him.’ When Will starts to turn his head to oblige, she growls. ‘But you are _not_ going to!’

Will gives her a scathing look, his own irises flooding with a warmer, darker gold.

‘I see you’ve er, _cast_ _aside_ the social graces normally afforded to human beings.’

‘ _He’s_ cast them aside,’ the Omega replies. ‘All he’s allowed is the sound of water.’ She approaches from the side, still holding Will in her line of sight. ‘It’s what the unborn hear. It’s their last memory of peace.’

Will quivers as black rage courses through him. The injustice of it rankles, yes, but he knows all too well how it feels to be locked in a cage, trapped in the dark with nothing but the screams in his head to comfort him.

‘You’re keeping him like an animal,’ he spits, and the younger Omega smirks at his outrage.

‘I wouldn’t do _this_ to an _animal_.’

She jerks the rifle to the left, motioning for him to move. To leave the room. Will nods, resigned to being escorted from the premises with no further answers about his former mate, and begins to walk, his hands still held up to either side of his head.

The female Omega escorts him out, keeping a safe distance behind him as she drives him from the house.

Descending the steps of the manor, Will risks a question to halt his impending eviction from the estate. If he can get the other Omega talking, he might be able to stay.

He needs to. He needs to know more about the man in the cage and the statue in the garden.

‘What did he do?’ he asks, careful not to slip on the wet stone. The answer, when it comes, pulls him up short.

‘He ate her.’

‘Mischa?’ He slows, unable to walk and process the gravity of the discovery. The other Omega comes closer, her gun still trained onto his back, but Will ignores the threat. ‘How long has he been your prisoner?’

‘We have been each other’s prisoner… for a very long time.’

_Of course you have._

Scoffing softly, Will begins to turn towards her.

‘However did you find yourself in this… _situation?’_ he asks, already knowing the answer. They both do, after all. They’re both Omegas enthralled by the same Alpha.

Sensing his thought, the other Omega comes to stand abreast of him.

‘That question applies to both of us.’

Will chuckles mirthlessly, his eyes blurred with tears. He’d really wanted to be special, but it seems he was just a new toy.

_How many Omegas has he bonded and then Cut? Does he feel anything at all?_

‘And the answer’s probably the same,’ he replies, his voice wobbling. He needs a distraction. ‘What’s your name?’

The other Omega narrows her eyes, considering whether or not to answer. Then,

‘Chiyoh.’ She lets the rifle butt lower a fraction. ‘How do you know Hannibal?’

 _How do I know Hannibal?_ Will almost laughs again at the question. The naivety of it.

‘One could argue… _intimately_.’ He takes a shaky breath. ‘I’m… I _was_ his Omega. His mate.’ His mouth twists in pain. ‘We… He…’ His hand twitches, wanting to touch the scar on the back of his neck where his crest should be. ‘He C-Cut me. Left me.’

‘ _Nakama_?’ Chiyoh murmurs. At the puzzled look on Will’s face, she explains, ‘It’s a Japanese word for “bonded closer than family”.’

‘Yes, we were Pair Bonded,’ Will confirms. ‘We were _nakama_.’ He swallows the lump in his throat, forcing back tears. ‘Last time I saw him, he… er…’ His lips twist in a grimace. ‘He left me with a _smile_.’

As he lowers his hand, Chiyoh raises her gun as though expecting an attack. Will, however, simply lifts his shirt up, showing off the wide scar from Hannibal’s knife and the cesarean.

‘He sliced my crest off and he stabbed me in the gut,’ he says, quietly furious at the memory. ‘I was three months pregnant.’

Chiyoh stares, silently horrified, and then lowers the rifle. As she does, a tear trickles down her cheek.

‘All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story,’ she says, her voice soft. ‘She steps closer, the lantern glowing between them, as bright as their eyes. ‘Tell me a story.’

***

‘In Roman times,’ Hannibal says, ‘each carcass was divided.’

As he speaks, he slides his butcher’s knife through the skinned body of Professor Sogliato, cutting away chuck, rib, round and shank.

‘Prime cuts went to nobility. Second to the clergy. Third to the bourgeoisie, and fourth to the army.’

Will sits beside him in their Florentine apartment, resplendent in a charcoal suit with a high black jumper; a perfect mirror to Hannibal’s gray cashmere sweater and black blazer. Across from them, Signor and Signora Albizzi smile benignly; the president of the museum's governing board and his Omegan mate, blissfully unaware that they are about to dine upon their most recently lost associate.

‘The _quinto quarto_ ,’ Hannibal finishes, ‘the offal, went to the poor.’

‘The “fifth quarter”?’ Will asks, frowning up at him, confused by the translation. Hannibal smiles genially, fingers busy shredding rosemary, stood over a hotplate set up so he can cook before his guests. Table-side theatrics.

‘The innards of a carcass constitute roughly a quarter of its weight,’ he explains, moving from herbs to artichokes.

‘“ _Il quinto quarto_ ” evolved from necessity to become high tradition,’ Signor Albizzi says, speaking to Will as one might teach a child something new.

Will offers him a tight, irritated smile, even as his eyes flash gold. He is saved, however, by the hiss of lungs frying in an iron skillet, and Hannibal makes them whistle when he presses them with his spatula.

‘“ _Sibilo caratteristico_ ”,’ the Alpha purrs. ‘When the lungs whistle, the dish is done.’

He slices the lungs at the table, and then layers the meat onto silver skewers. He arranges them to mimic a dozen crossed swords stabbing a shield, and sets the platter down before his guests with a flourish.

‘ _Coratella con Carciofi_. Purple artichokes served with spring lamb's liver, lungs and heart.’

_Professor Sogliator’s liver, lungs and heart._

Will – replacing Bedelia once more in Hannibal’s story – is served a plate of oysters and roasted acorns, with a glass of sweet Marsala wine.

‘Mmm.’ Signora Albizzi purrs her appreciation, and then gestures to the fifth place setting beside her. ‘Professor Sogliato doesn’t know what he’s missing,’ she coos. She looks sadly at her fellow Omega, and adds, ‘So rude of him to ignore your invitation.’

Will manages a tight-lipped smile.

‘He sends his regrets.’

Signora Albizzi dips her head to the platter again and inhales deeply.

‘Oh, Madonna, it smells _divine_.’

‘It is,’ Hannibal says, pouring them each a glass of Chianti from a carafe. ‘I say that without ego.’ He grins at them, his eyes sparkling with flirtatious humor as he adds, ‘I don’t require conventional reinforcement.’

The Albizzi’s both laugh; obedient little lambs, and Will’s stomach churns. He scoops out the flesh of an oyster, trying to ignore the way the smell of Professor Sogliato’s innards makes his mouth water with hunger.

‘You would agree, Signor Fell?’ Signora Albizzi asks, seeking kinship with her fellow Omega.

‘My husband’s ego is not measured by _conventional_ means,’ Will agrees, shooting Hannibal a dirty look when his Alpha sits beside him and brushes his knee against his leg.

The Albizzi’s, taking the reply to be flirtatious rather than insulting, smile genially, and Hannibal breaks the silence by adding,

‘I first prepared this dish in honor of my sister, when I was very young.’

_I ate her captors, her killers, in this very manner._

Will lifts a second oyster to his lips, watching with revulsion at the way Signor and Signora Albizzi’s mouths close around their forks, unknowingly eating a former colleague.

‘I’m sure you’ve perfected the recipe over the years,’ he says quietly, an entirely different meaning layered beneath the innocuous words.

_You’ve perfected killing over the years. You’ve elevated it to art._

Signora Albizzi savors the flavors coursing over her tongue; the tenderness of the meat and the subtle blend of herbs and spices.

‘The meat,’ she purrs, her pupils dilating with pleasure, irises molten gold and fork already gathering another mouthful before she’s finished chewing.

Beside her, her Alpha chuckles.

‘You have a very good butcher,’ he says, heaping praise onto the man he believes to be Doctor Fell.

Hannibal smiles, accepting the compliment.

‘I do indeed.’ He leans forward. ‘The lamb must be newly slaughtered; the organs cooked the same day. I _always_ oversee this process personally.’

_I watched as Professor Sogliato was slaughtered last night, and then I butchered him today, for this meal._

Will watches, disquieted, as the Albizzis continue to devour their fallen comrade. Hannibal’s delight is palpable, and it is all he can do not to flip the table and scream as them to run, to leave now, while they still can.

 _It’s too late for me,_ he thinks, watching the sheep across from him obey their social training and consume every last morsel of food. _Maybe I never stood a chance. I was dead the moment I looked into Hannibal’s eyes._

It’s an unnerving thought, made more so by the ease with which he accepts his fate. He doesn’t want to die; he doesn’t want Hannibal to kill him, but there’s a good chance it will happen, and that’s okay.

As long as he takes the Alpha with him.

***

The scene in Florence stays tucked, safe and sound, in the back of his mind as he describes his relationship with Hannibal; from being manipulated into a coma-inducing Heat to being gutted and Cut whilst carrying an unborn child.

Will is careful not to mention the babies’ survival; Chiyoh, after all, is an unknown entity perhaps entirely loyal to Hannibal.

He watches her face as he speaks, and he sees his flat, dispassionate tone get under her skin, making her seek the comfort of the warmth of her teacup as she listens. Will allows his grief to be tangible; he misses Hannibal more than he’d thought possible. As angry as he is with him, being here, with the faint echo of his scent and his undeniable presence touching everything, all he wants to do is kiss him and be held by him.

‘I know he misses me, too,’ he says, his voice rough from unshed tears. ‘He’s still imagining me with him, just as I see him wherever I am.’ He offers Chiyoh a tight, wobbling smile. ‘We construct fairytales… and we accept them. Our minds concoct all sorts of fantasies when we don’t want to believe something.’

_I concocted the fantasy that Hannibal could change… that he would change for me. I twisted his motivations into love in my mind and that fairytale has taken root to this day. I didn’t want to believe that he was just toying with me. I wanted to be special. Was any of it real?_

Chiyoh’s shoulder slump and grief darkens her eyes. She thinks Will is talking about her; about her honor towards the so-called treacherous Alpha who has tricked her into being a prisoner as much as the man in the cage.

‘I _accept_ what Hannibal has done,’ she says, offering quiet protest to the naïve denial she’s being accused of. ‘I understand _why_ he has done it.’

Will bares his teeth when he shakes his head.

‘Mischa doesn’t _explain_ Hannibal. She doesn’t _quantify_ what he does.’

_She doesn’t excuse his actions. His mistakes._

‘He does what was done to _her_ ,’ Chiyoh says, softly earnest as she leans forwards across the low table.

Will rolls his eyes, and buys himself a moment by looking around the room of the hunting cottage. They’re sitting opposite each other, kneeling before a squat table set for Japanese tea. A fire burns in the hearth and the walls are enshrined with Edo art and artefacts.

‘How do you _know_ it was your prisoner who killed Mischa?’ he asks, and, as Chiyoh lowers her eyes, he realizes how far gone the other Omega is.

‘Hannibal told me so,’ the young woman says, grimacing as if hearing how damning her words are.

Will smiles sadly, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Chiyoh frowns at him.

‘Hannibal took someone from you,’ she says. ‘Are you here to take someone from him?’

_The thought had crossed my mind._

‘I’ve… forgiven him his trespasses,’ he murmurs. ‘As he’s forgiven mine.’

Chiyoh looks puzzled.

‘You’re _nakama_ ,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you alike?’

Will takes a deep breath, considering the question. As he does, he reaches for the little teapot and, picking it up by the woven handle, pours them both more tea.

‘If I were like Hannibal,’ he says, his voice rich with a purr, ‘I would have killed you already. Cooked you… ate you… And fed what was left of you to him.’ He quirks an eyebrow and takes a sip of steaming matcha. ‘That’s what _he_ would do.’

‘You’ve given that some thought,’ Chiyoh says, her golden eyes coldly accusing. Will offers her a tiny, apologetic smile before sobering once more.

‘Do you know where he is?’ he asks, quietly desperate. Chiyoh narrows her eyes and shakes her head.

‘Why are you looking for him?’ she asks. ‘After he did _that_ to you? … After he left you?’

Will glances down, a hand unconsciously drifting towards his abdomen. He thinks about the question, weighing it in his mind, and his brow creases.

‘I…’

_Still love him. Miss him. Want to be with him. Want to kill him. Hold him. Touch him. Take him home._

None of these things are right. They’re not wrong, but they don’t encompass what Hannibal means to him.

‘I’ve never _known_ myself… as well as I know myself when I’m with him,’ he admits, and that’s the truth of it.

_He makes me whole._

Chiyoh looks down with a sigh, and Will knows she understands.

‘You won’t find Hannibal here,’ the other Omega says. ‘There are places on these grounds he cannot safely go.’ She looks up, her eyes blazing. ‘Bad memories.’

_A child screaming. The thud of an axe. A deer skull rattling in a copper pot and the taste of broth on his lips, keeping him alive after the rabid Alphas murdered Mischa._

Will shivers, his skin pebbling.

‘What do these grounds hold for _you?’_ he asks, afraid of the answer but needing to know the truth.

_Were you bonded to him before? Are you still bonded to him now?_

Chiyoh grimaces.

‘Hannibal wanted to kill that man for what he did to Mischa,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t let him take his life… So Hannibal left his life with me.’

_If you’d turned him in back then, he would have gone free. Let him go now and he’ll probably kill you._

‘He was…’ Will looks down and wets his lips, his breath catching. ‘ _Curious_ if you would kill.’ He smiles, but it is mirthless. ‘I imagine he still is.’

_So am I._

***

Hannibal fantasizes about washing Will’s hair for him that night. A simple thing, but emotionally charged.

Will lies back in the deep bath, rose-oiled water to his chin and head tipped back to allow his Alpha to soap and rinse his curls. The act is both sensual and threatening; Hannibal is caring for him, but he could slide his hand down and squeeze the life from him at any moment.

‘What were you like as a young man?’ Will murmurs, keeping his eyes closed and concentrating on the feel of strong fingers massaging his scalp, the heat of the water supporting his body and the scent of his Alpha in his nose.

Hannibal smiles at the question.

‘I was rooting for Mephistopheles and contemptuous of Faust,’ he replies, perfectly summing up his delight for chaos and wickedness.

Will hums a smile. He risks a look up at the other man, gazing at his sharp jaw and cruel lips; dark eyes gleaming high above him like the Morningstar.

‘Would you like to talk about your first spring lamb?’ he asks, and he feels the overly-careful stroking of soapy hands.

‘Would _you?’_ the Alpha says, and Will thinks carefully before answering.

‘Why can’t you come home, Hannibal? What happened to you here?’ He tries to imagine them in the manor house, or even the hunting cottage, but Hannibal’s refusal to entertain such a thought keeps them rooted in the Florence apartment.

‘Nothing happened to me,’ Hannibal lies. ‘I happened.’

Will swallows back a whine, and instead arches his neck, unconsciously displaying himself for the other man even as poisonous words slither from his mouth.

‘How did your sister taste?’

_I know what you did. I know you didn’t mean to, but it haunts you to this day. You ate her, and the only way you can make peace with it is to pretend you honor her with every other kill. Pretend you’re not trying to drown out the truth of consuming her flesh by replacing it with the taste of others._

Will’s reality shivers. There’s a great pull from Hannibal, his mind withdrawing, and Will feels himself slide down the bath. The water closes over his face, hot and dark and suffocating, and he’s drowning. He struggles, reaching for the surface, but the more he fights, the faster he sinks.

_Let go. Wade into the quiet of the stream._

He’s not finished here.

Will opens his eyes, and he’s back in Lecter Estate, water dripping down the walls of the old basement. He breathes slowly and deeply, savoring the smell of damp and decay because it’s _real_ and it means he’s not lost to the madness.

Clicking on the flashlight, Will swings the beam around just in time to see the caged Alpha pluck a snail from the bar of his cell and eat it, shell and all. The wasted man stares, blinded by the light, staying perfectly still as Will jams a tire iron between the rusty padlock and the cage door. He yanks, violent and determined, and the iron gives way under his ferocious effort.

The Alpha cowers. As Will pulls open the door and steps into the dungeon, the skeletal man cringes away from him, whining softly and curling up into a ball in the corner.

It doesn’t matter. Will strides forward, popping snail shells underfoot, and covers the Alpha’s head in a burlap sack.

Time to go.

***

He dumps him half a mile down the road from the estate. Will watches, emotionless, as the Alpha fall to his knees, overwhelmed by so much space, so many stars and the fresh breeze on his face.

 _‘Kas as?’_ the man mutters, his breathing coming in short, panicked bursts. _‘Kas as esu?’_

He reaches for Will, dirty fingers pawing at his coat, closing around the soft fabric. Will growls a warning, keeping the cold of the tire iron between their chests, and pushes a change of clothes at the Alpha.

‘Go.’

As he turns to leave, the caged man comes after him, grabbing at his leg. Will pushes him away.

 _‘Kas as esu?’_ the Alpha repeats, begging for the name of his savior. Will ignores him, making for the car, and the Alpha panics, grabbing again.

Will wheels around, pressing the tire iron into his chest and shoving him back.

‘Go!’ he snarls, his eyes flashing gold.

The Alpha hesitates only a moment, still swaying on weak legs. He stares, as if seeing a monster, bewildered that an Omega could act in such a way. When Will brandishes the tire iron again, he stumbles backwards, turns and then begins to run.

Will watches until the man’s silhouette fades to darkness, swallowed by the shadows of the forest around them, and then he returns to the car and drives back to the house.

Chiyoh is a prisoner no longer.

***

At the Norman Chapel in Palermo, Jack Crawford lights a prayer candle for his Bella, his Omega, and, as the wick crackles and burns, blows out the stick with which he lit it.

‘Are you a believer, Signor Crawford?’ Inspector Pazzi asks, drawing close behind him, watching the Alpha gaze into the flame.

Jack hums softly, his lips curving into a dry smile.

‘Aren’t we all? Belief comes with imagination.’ He turns to face the Omega. ‘We also imagine the possibility that we all live on after death.’ He sighs, his heart heavy. ‘Will Graham _died_ ,’ he says. ‘His babies _died_. _Lui ero morto. Io ero morto._ He was _dead_. I was _dead_. We didn’t imagine that.’

Pazzi narrows his eyes. He can’t let himself think of the pain losing children must have caused. From their conversations, he knows that _Il Mostro_ gutted his Omega before slicing off his crest, theoretically rendering him infertile and unbonded.

Cursed to be damaged and alone, for the rest of his life.

‘What does Will Graham imagine now?’ he asks, his voice weak at the thought of such a thing happening to him.

Jack sighs.

‘I borrowed his imagination,’ he says. ‘And I broke it. I don’t know _how_ he managed to piece himself back together again. I don’t think I could.’

‘People come here to be closer to their God,’ Pazzi says. ‘Isn’t _that_ what Will Graham was doing?’

_My Alpha is my God, in all the ways that matter. She is my sun. My everything. Isn’t that how all Omegas feel about their mates?_

‘Maybe.’ Jack shrugs. ‘Will Graham _understands_ Hannibal… He… accepts him. Who among us doesn’t want understanding and acceptance?’

_Hannibal has no idea what a special gift Will gave him. What Will is still giving to him, even now. Wherever he is._

***

The next evening, Chiyoh prepares another roasted pheasant for her prisoner. She wraps the bird in parchment, ties it with string and then takes it, as she always does, down to the caged Alpha in the cellar.

Her shotgun is under one arm; the lamp hanging from the other. She moves quickly and decisively. When she reaches the cell door, she sets the gun aside on a low wall, places the lamp beside her and then slides the parcel through the slot in the bars, just as always.

Only, this time, the Alpha lunges for her.

The cage door swings open, the lock missing, and the Alpha is on her in an instant. He snarls, his eyes blazing red, scent sharp with Rut.

Chiyoh falls backwards, knocked from her feet and winded by the force of the attack. She lands hard on her back and the Alpha pounces on her, straddling her waist and wrapping his grubby hands around her throat.

 _‘Atsiliepk, kalbek!’_ the Alpha demands, shaking with the effort of strangling her, even as he begs her to speak to him.

Chiyoh struggles, her hand scrabbling across the flagstone floor. Gray spots dance before her eyes and she can feel a cold numbness spreading through her. There’s a moment of stillness, acceptance, and she stares up into the Alpha’s eyes, not as his victim but as his tormentor, and guilt robs the last of her strength as she whispers,

‘I’m _sorry_.’

Her gloved fingers close around a jagged pheasant bone, tossed out of the cage months ago by the Alpha. Chiyoh brings it up, a last, desperate attempt to survive, and jams it deep into the side of his neck.

The Alpha rears back and Chiyoh bucks, twisting so that she’s the one on top. She wrenches the bone from him and blood spurts out, too fast to stop.

The man convulses, bloody spit frothing from his lips as he drowns in his own fluid. Chiyoh stares, horrified by what she’s done, until the Alpha’s arm drops away from his neck and he is eerily still.

It’s over. She’s killed him. After so many years… He died so fast.

Will is tending Mischa’s grave when he hears her scream. He sets the last flower in the vase and then rises, hurrying into the house to check on her.

The other Omega is huddled by the wall when he enters the room. Chiyoh’s hands and face are spattered with blood, her golden eyes wide and sightless as she stares at the prone body of the Alpha. The man she’d held captive for so long; whom she had resisted killing until now.

Snails are already crawling over his body, eager to devour his flesh. Will stares, shocked by the scene before him.

He hadn’t expected the Alpha to return.

‘You did this.’ When Chiyoh speaks, her voice is soft but cutting. ‘You set him free.’

‘It was you I wanted to set free,’ Will explains, drawing closer.

A tear rolls down Chiyoh’s face.

‘You said Hannibal was curious if I would kill… You were curious, too.’

Will swallows, his eyes flickering gold. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he was.

‘I didn’t want _this_ ,’ he says, and Chiyoh growls at him.

‘Yes, you did! You were doing what _he_ does.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘He’d be so proud of you. His Omega. His _nakama_.’

‘Did you know?’ Will asks, closing the last of the distance and crouching before her. ‘At some level… you knew.’

Chiyoh studies him quietly, wondering if he’s asking from experience. If he’s done this sort of thing before.

What twisted games do they play with each other?

Will sighs, and pulls a knife from his pocket. Opening the blade, he tugs a dusty bottle of wine from one of the racks near Chiyoh’s abandoned shotgun.

With a collection like this, no wonder Hannibal is such a wine connoisseur.

Tearing off the label, he twists the blade into the cork and pops it free, and then hands the bottle to Chiyoh.

She looks like she could use a drink.

‘He created a story,’ he says, ‘out of events that only he experienced.’ A grim smile. ‘“All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story.”’

Chiyoh drinks, choking on the unfamiliar taste, and Will accepts the bottle from her as he eases himself onto the ground beside her, their backs to the wall, feet pointing towards the dead Alpha.

‘I never knew Mischa,’ Chiyoh says. ‘I only knew what Hannibal told me about her. What he told me was done to her.’ She looks at him. ‘He wasn't lying about that, was he?’

Will takes a swig of wine and then shakes his head.

‘No.’

Chiyoh nods, and then looks back at the Alpha.

‘For Mischa.’

She stands up, reeling slightly at the truth of what she’s done. The life she’s taken. Very deliberately, she collects her shotgun and trains it on Will.

‘I’ll help you find him.’

Will frowns up at her.

‘Why would you help me?’ he asks, curious as to the turn of events. Chiyoh’s lower lip wobbles, but she has no more tears left to cry.

‘I have no reason to stay here,’ she replies. ‘Not anymore. You saw to that.’

She walks away, leaving him alone. Will watches her go, feeling invisible fingers stroking his hair, down his neck, across his shoulders.

_An imago is an image of a loved one. Buried in the unconscious. Carried with us all our lives._

He’s not a chrysalis, anymore. Hannibal has fed him, whispered to him, influenced and guided him. Dying… living again and losing his mind… pieces together the fragments of himself, like a stained glass window in church… they’re all stages of his final transformation.

He smashes a dozen bottles of vintage burgundies, shards of colored glass glittering in the candlelight, and attaches them to twigs and branches gathered from the forest outside. Pheasant feathers create a beautiful plumage, down floating in the silent air like dust motes.

The snails watch, silent observers as Will labors through the night. He threads a needle with sturdy black cotton, securing first the dead Alpha’s arms across his chest and then his legs tight together. Cabbage leaves are next, sewn into his skin, wrapped in layers like the bandages of a mummified corpse.

Empty shells, glued together, form a single giant casing, enfolding the Alpha’s lower half to give the appear of a chrysalis.

The hardest part is lifting the thing. Will secures ropes around the back of the body and the wings, heaving with all his strength on the rope pulley.

_This is my design._

Snails cover the Alpha from head to toe, suckered to his cheek and eager to eat through the cabbage encasing him. Will gazes at his creation, pleased with the wings open out, and he secures the rope on a hook in the wall.

The man, once caged and useless, has now been transformed through death into a firefly, just as Will, through pain and death, has been transformed.

_I’m ready to see you now._

***

He’s coming.

Hannibal chooses a jaunty tune to play on the piano as he engages in a therapy session with Bedelia the next morning. Sunlight streams through the window of the apartment, warming his fingers as they dance over the ivory keys of the piano.

‘What your sister made you feel was beyond your conscious ability to control or predict,’ his fellow Alpha says, crossing her arms as she watches Hannibal distract himself from the difficulty of the conversation.

‘Or negotiate,’ Hannibal adds, and Bedelia hums her agreement before broaching the truly difficult part of the topic.

‘I would _suggest_ that what Will Graham makes you feel is not… dissimilar. A force of mind and circumstance.’

‘Love,’ Hannibal says, keeping his eyes trained on the keys, despite not needing to. He smiles, and, when he looks up, manages to keep the red from showing in his eyes. ‘It pays you a visit or it doesn’t.’

‘Same with forgiveness,’ Bedelia suggests. ‘And, I would argue, the same with betrayal.’

‘The god Betrayal, who presupposes the god Forgiveness,’ Hannibal muses, the notes becoming sharper, more jarring as his emotion seeps into his hands.

‘We can all betray,’ Bedelia says sadly. ‘Sometimes, we have no other choice.’

‘Mischa didn’t betray me,’ Hannibal snaps, looking up at her with cold warning. He will brook no insult to his sister’s memory. ‘She influenced me to betray myself, but I forgave her that influence.’

Bedelia closes her eyes.

‘If past behavior is an indicator of future behavior,’ she says, ‘… Then there is only one way you will forgive Will Graham.’

Hannibal stabs at the keys, three, four last chords and then, as the final notes rings into screaming silence, he looks up with a purr.

‘I know…’ He sighs. ‘I have to eat him.’


	4. Aperitivo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr Frederick Chilton, having survived the shooting by Miriam Lass, returns in an attempt to unify Will, Alana and Jack Crawford against Hannibal Lecter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps... Gosh, I'm so sorry this has taken so long to update. I've been really struggling with writing in general over the last few weeks (blame the pandemic, I suppose). I've been immersing myself more in Batman fics as a way to avoid reality (because, hey, ABO Hannigram isn't separate enough, apparently...)
> 
> Anyway, hopefully I can get my groove back and update again soon! In the meantime, enjoy. 
> 
> P.S. THE BABIES ARE ALIVE. I promise. Will’s mental state is badly fractured and his sense of time and reality is very muddled, especially when he’s visited by Dr Chilton, and he’s so scared that the twins are dead that he can’t let himself believe they’re okay. 
> 
> I PROMISE THEY ARE.

Four

_Aperitivo_

The bullet leaves the muzzle of Miriam Lass’s gun at 200km/hr. It shatters the mirrored glass of the interview room, zaps through the air, skimming Alana Bloom’s hair, and enters Fredrick Chilton’s left cheek, just below the eye.

‘Each of us, whose life intersected Hannibal Lecter… lost something. A limb here… A lung there… A few feet of intestines…’

The bullet crushes the cornea of his eye and rips through muscle like tissue paper. Teeth shatter, his jaw and cheekbone splinter and the small piece of metal punches it way through his brain, bisecting the left temporal lobe before exploding out the back of his skull and embedding deep in the wall behind him.

Dr Chilton thinks the bullet may still be there, but he won’t go back to check. His recovery from Dr Gideon’s attack had been bad enough. His recovery from Hannibal’s attack – courtesy of Miss Lass – has been significantly worse.

Now, standing in the opulent master bedroom at Muskrat Farm, Dr Chilton can’t help but feel pity for the creature before him.

‘The dead,’ he says, swallowing hard at the thought of what Hannibal Lecter had done to Mason Verger; wondering what remained of his face after the attack, ‘The dead… at least have the luxury of being… _done_ with what they lost.’

_I miss beef so much, but I can’t risk eating too much protein._

‘You and I,’ he adds, narrowing a red-ringed eye at the Beta, ‘we still _itch_.’

_Itch to do what was done to us. Itch to enact our revenge._

Behind his plastic prosthetic mask, Mason Verger manages a dry little chuckle.

‘That little _itch_ must be telling you something,’ he says, his voice even more nasal than before, the consonants lost from his speech; courtesy of Dr Hannibal Lecter and his slut, Will Graham.

Standing atop an inset aquarium, in which Mason’s vicious moray eel glides, Dr Chilton takes a step closer and clasps both hands on the handle of his walking cane before him. His right eye gleams a dull red as the iris thickens with a crimson band of keen interest.

‘Would you like to discuss what that little itch is telling you?’ he asks, smirking softly as he dangles the bait before the injured Beta.

Unwilling to lose his ground in the verbal sparring with a damaged Alpha, Mason Verger asks, with an obvious sneer in his mangled voice,

‘Are you wearing _makeup?’_ At Dr Chilton’s uncomfortable fidget, his blue eyes gleam. ‘How long does it take you to put your face on in the morning, hm?’

To his credit, Dr Chilton doesn’t flinch again.

‘Now that I’ve got the routine down, no time at all,’ he replies, affecting a bored drawl. Mason likes it. He’ll give the good Doctor what he wants.

‘Tell you what,’ he purrs, his breathing apparatus feeding him more oxygen as excitement makes his heart pound. ‘You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.’

_What scars have those two bastards left us with?_

Dr Chilton considers the request for a moment and then decides it’s worth the discomfort of being seen. He lifts a hand to his left eye, removing the contact lens giving the damaged eyeball color and definition. Behind the lens is a mess of scarred sclera and clouded iris. The pupil was blasted wide but scar tissue prevents him from seeing. The eye may as well be made of glass for all the good it does him now.

In response, Mason Verger lifts a weak, wasted hand to his chin, loosening the neck brace and pulling it away from the paper-thin, scarred flesh of his throat.

Next, Dr Chilton takes a Hermès handkerchief from his inner pocket, wiping away the thick layer of foundation and setting powder. The scar beneath is dark and puckered; testament to the gaping wound the surgical team had been unable to sew up.

The scar on the back of his skull is worse, but thankfully the hair transplant took and it’s only visible in strong daylight, now.

Mason removes his face mask, struggling to breathe independently through the pin-prick slits that remain of his nostrils. His face is a mess of skin grafts expended over bone and what little muscle they could salvage. Nose-less and lipless, his face has a sunken, skull-like quality to it. He looks like a creature of the deep ocean; something that should never be brought to the surface to see the light of day.

Dr Chilton slides the dentures from the left side of his mouth. Upper jaw only; he thankfully has enough molars left on the bottom to still chew, though he prefers soft foods these days.

Once the denture is removed, his cheek loses all structure. The skin sags, making his eye droop, and the true extent of the damage is revealed.

Mason sighs, his tongue working to wet what little skin is left where his lips used to be.

‘There,’ he says, feeling dizzy from the effort of revealing himself. ‘Now we can talk face to face.’

_Or, what’s left of them._

‘I understand you have offered quite a _substantial_ reward for any kind of relevant information on Hannibal Lecter,’ Dr Chilton says, meeting Mason’s eyes firmly from across the space between them. ‘Not just the usual apprehension and conviction.’

‘Yes,’ Mason replies, unashamed of it. ‘A million dollars. One million. We advertised worldwide. A high price for a fancy pig.’

Dr Chilton steps closer.

‘Hannibal _would_ be a prize pig if I had him in my hospital,’ he says, ‘but _you_ do not intend to see him institutionalized, do you?’

Mason tilts his head as best he can – his spinal column was fractured in several places by Dr Lecter’s meticulous twist, rendering him weak and mostly paralyzed from the chin down. The numbness is odd; spreading half across his face and down all but one arm, as well as affecting his lungs.

‘I’m saying nothing that would force you to break the bonds of doctor-patient confidentiality,’ he says, and Dr Chilton gives him a lop-sided smirk.

‘You don’t want a _therapist_ ,’ he says. ‘You want a _profiler_.’ He huffs, wishing the Beta had just been honest when he’d accepted his initial request to meet.

Mason narrows his eyes.

‘I want to understand Hannibal Lecter to better understand myself,’ he replies, and Dr Chilton shrugs.

‘You survived him,’ he says simply. ‘That is chief amongst what you need to understand.’

‘“Survived him”?’ Mason’s voice rises with incredulity. ‘That implies fortune or skill on my part that somehow allowed me to live!’ He splutters, choking as his throat refuses to swallow his spit. ‘No. This is _exactly_ how he intended me to live.’ Working his jaw as much as he can, Mason tries to grind his teeth in anger. ‘I know somewhere Dr Lecter is going to and fro in the earth and walking up and down it, and, very likely, having a good, _fun_ time.’

He gasps, struggling to breathe, and Dr Chilton draws closer to the bed as he waits for the Beta to catch his breath.

‘How do you relieve the agony of waiting for Dr Lecter’s capture?’ he asks, his undamaged eye glowing crimson as the first hint of Rut hormones hit his system. ‘What do you fantasize about?’ When Mason stays silent, Dr Chilton continues, ‘… I wonder what would _happen_ if Hannibal Lecter was in your hands…’

‘I worry we’re heading into territory not secured by your _fee_ ,’ Mason warns, and he runs his tongue over the back of his teeth with a dismissive hiss. ‘I think I need to look elsewhere for somebody to tend to my emotional wellbeing. Goodbye, Dr Chilton.’

Dr Chilton sniffs and smirks one last time. So, Mason Verger _is_ planning to catch and kill Dr Lecter. Pity. He’ll just have to catch him first.

‘Happy hunting,’ he says, and leaves the Beta to his schemes.

He has plans of his own to enact.

***

‘We couldn’t leave without you.’

The nuchalectomy blade slices through muscle like it butter, slicing through the layers of tissue to get at the most vulnerable part of him.

_The baby. Hannibal, the baby!_

Will clings to his Alpha, silently screaming for him to stop, to please just _stop_ , but Hannibal doesn’t. He _doesn’t,_ and it gets worse because then he uses the same blade, slick with abdominal blood, to slice off the crest on the back of Will’s neck, severing hundreds of nerves and leaving nothing but a shredded flap of skin where his ridged scar had been.

The pain is bad. It snatches his breath and turns his blood to ice, even as it pours out of him. But what’s worse is the feeling of falling; the rapid, spiraling and uncontrollable descent into madness.

_Put your head back. Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream._

‘It’s called a _Koboi_ ,’ Hannibal says, holding the blade up for Will to see, even as his brain sizzles. ‘A traditional knife used in the punitive Cutting of wayward Omegas.’

Will thinks he screamed, but he’s not sure. Maybe he doesn’t have the breath to scream. It’s too much, too much and his mind is splintering, fractures widening until the pressure spills over and he shatters.

Dreams become nightmares. Nightmares become waking horrors.

He drifts in the darkness of his mind, slipping between the

Pieces come together slowly; a fragment here, a speck there. Nothing whole, nothing solid, and held together so tenuously that the slightest knock sends him reeling back into the hot darkness of insanity.

He sleeps and he wakes, over and over until he can no longer tell the difference between dreams and the waking world.

The pain is constant. The pressure on his abdomen is constant until it’s not.

_The baby._

His Pops is there, comforting him. The babies are there; twins, a girl and a boy. Gracie and David.

Will drifts in and out of madness, his body healing even as his mind tears itself apart. He imagines himself carrying for the twins; feeding them, changing them… Learning to cope as a single parent with his dad watching over him, offering silent moral support.

He tires himself out too easily. Too often. Dr Shapiro despairs of him ever stabilizing. He knows he does. There’s a dark, haunted look in his eyes every time he asks him the question.

‘How do you feel?’

The edges of the room blur. Reality blurs with the dream he’d been having. A party; a hundred well-to-do Alphas and their Omegan companions. Hannibal, casually sophisticated in a leather jacket and jeans, not drinking the champagne but pretending to.

A wolf among the sheep.

‘Thirsty,’ Will croaks, uncertain why there are electrodes on his bare chest, when in his mind he’s dressed in a navy suit, drinking hundred-dollar champagne by the bottle.

Is he drunk? Is that why he’s floating?

A plastic straw nudges his lips and he sucks, rewarded with tepid water sweet as nectar.

‘Feel up for a visitor?’ the doctor asks, moving away before Will can do more than nod.

How long has he been here? How long has it been since the attack? Since Hannibal gutted him and slit Abigail’s throat?

How long since he lost everyone he ever loved.

No doubt the FBI want to question him. He’s bonded – _was_ bonded, God… no… _–_ to the Chesapeake Ripper.

_Please… please just let me die. I don’t want to be here alone._

A dark shape moves behind the frosted glass. The shadow draws closer, taking form, and the monitor registers a jump in Will’s pulse.

 _Abigail_ …

He wants it to be her. Wants it so badly it hurts. But it’s not. It’s not; it’s Dr Chilton. Who granted him access to visit? Is he past the point of immediate family only? Or does Pops think that maybe Frederick Chilton would be a better suitor than Hannibal?

The idea makes Will want to vomit.

When is it? Has he spoken to Frederick before? Why does he feel drugged? Floating and untethered, a kite with a broken string…

The diminutive Alpha wanders closer, sharply dressed in a designer suit, cradling an enormous bunch of flowers.

_The nurse cradled Gracie that way… I remember she did… Please… Please tell me that was real._

‘Hello, Frederick,’ Will sighs, disappointment leeching what little strength he has from his voice.

Dr Chilton offers a self-deprecating smile.

‘You were expecting someone else?’

‘I was _hoping_ for someone else,’ Will admits, and Frederick nods, considering the reply. His right eye flashes red, the undamaged iris flooding with color as Alpha hormones pour through him at the idea of an Omega – any Omega – being hurt.

‘He knew exactly how to cut you,’ he says, voice tight with anger and regret. ‘To do the most amount of damage, without killing you…’ He swallows. ‘They said it was surgical. The precision with which he removed your crest… He wanted you to live.’

‘He left us to die,’ Will whispers, a tear rolling down his cheek at the memory of the pain. At the memory of feeling so utterly lost and abandoned.

_My baby… My babies… Did they survive?_

Abigail, his sweet child-killer, stares back at him. She’s wearing the same outfit as the night she died. Her skin is waxy, her throat slashed and crimson dried in great splashes down her jacket.

‘But we didn’t,’ she replies, and Will _remembers_ holding his daughter. _Remembers_ reaching through the hole in the incubator of Intensive Care and holding his son’s tiny, bandaged hand…

As Will blinks wetness from his eyes, Frederick sighs and approaches the bed.

‘Couple of suckers we’ve been,’ he says, grimacing at his own failings. ‘Set us up… Knocked us down.’ He frowns. ‘What bothers me the _most_ is… I think it was easy for him. Shooting monkeys in a barrel.’

_You don’t know him. You don’t know anything about him. How he thinks. How he feels._

Lying prone in his hospital bed, his abdomen re-stitched after tearing the sutures of his c-section, Will stares up at Dr Chilton, too weak to argue with him. There’s no point, anyway. Dr Chilton has never listened to him.

‘You were bonded to him,’ Frederick says, rolling his eyes. ‘I don’t know _what_ my excuse was.’

‘Compulsive imitation,’ Will suggests, his voice rasping from thirst. How long has he been out for this time? It comes in waves; darkness and dreaming, the sound of water and the feeling of razors across his skull…

‘How dull,’ Frederick replies, feigning a shudder. ‘But maybe…’ He gestures to the flowers and then sets the bouquet down on the side table as he adds, ‘I am learning all _sorts_ of new things about myself these days.’ He lingers by the bed, gazing down with a feral, hungry gleam in his remaining eye. ‘I’m learning new things about _you_ , too…’

_The twins… Does he know about the twins? They won’t be safe if he does._

‘Imitation allows us to better understand the behavior of others,’ Will says, trying to distract Frederick from probing too much about the pregnancy.

Dr Chilton gazes at the Omega before him. The man who _Pair Bonded_ Dr Hannibal Lecter, suffered through excessive prodrome and bore the Chesapeake Ripper’s child, only to have it cut out of him at the last moment.

Will’s probably been rendered infertile. Such a waste.

‘I have great empathy for you, Will,’ he murmurs. ‘Both us eviscerated and accused… I have _literally_ felt your pain.’

 _I doubt it,_ Will thinks, but instead he simply smiles grimly and says,

‘We have matching scars.’

‘You need a _friend_ , friend,’ Fredrick says, easing himself down into the chair beside the bed. The lingering scent of a Beta male sits there, heavy with cheap aftershave and engine oil. A nurse has been here, too; she must do a round in the maternity unit because she smells of baby milk. ‘You will leave this hospital, alone, your guardianship in question and under a cloud of suspicion.’

‘Not a cloud,’ Will says. ‘A fog.’

Frederick’s good eye burns like a hot ember.

‘I can help you heal. I can help you get Hannibal Lecter out of your head,’ he promises, but Will snorts at the transparency of the lie.

‘And into your hospital.’

Frederick’s lips thin at the being caught out, but Alphas are nothing if not consistent.

‘There’s opportunity here,’ he says, ‘For both of us. We can _catch_ the man who framed and maimed us.’

Will swallows, hating the lump in his throat. His chin wobbles and he has to take a moment to steady his voice before he speaks.

‘There’s no opportunity here, Frederick,’ he says, soft with longing and regret. ‘Not for you.’

_No matter what he’s done, I’m still his. He’s my Alpha; the father of my children. And I’ll never make the mistake of trying to cage him again._

Frederick considers the stubborn, stupid Omega before him, still so desperately clinging to the hope that the man to whom he was bonded might somehow be redeemed.

Foolish.

‘The optimist believes we live in the best of all possible worlds,’ he says. ‘The pessimist… they fear this is true.’ He leans closer, smothering the vulnerable Omega with his scent. ‘This _is_ your best possible world, Will. You’re not getting a better one.’ He smiles, but it isn’t nice. ‘Your Alpha _gutted_ you. He murdered your surrogate daughter _and_ your unborn child. Most likely, he left you infertile. Scarred and broken, unable to bear any future children.’

 _That’s not true… It’s not true,_ Will thinks, desperate for the Alpha to leave; to take his choking scent and his flowers from the room. To make space for his children and his dad to return.

‘Get out,’ he whispers, glaring up through a haze of tears, ignoring the flutter of panic in his chest as the Alpha’s features begin to shift, subtly rearranging themselves into cruel lips, sharp cheekbones and a high forehead…

 _Hannibal_.

‘What other possible world could we have built together?’ his Alpha murmurs, reaching out to place a gold-rimmed teacup in the center of Will’s chest.

_What would you have done, if you could go back and do things differently?_

***

It starts raining just as Jack sits down at the dinner table. Will glances to the left, out of the patio doors at the far end of the room, watching water trickle down the panes like blood.

_Soon._

The table is set as for a feast. Alphan posturing at its finest; peacock feathers, pomegranates and yellow cauliflowers to imitate the sun that Jack will never see again after tonight.

They’re serving lamb. A sacrifice, for their new life together.

As the smell of roasted meat wafts in on the warm air, Will presses a hand to the beginnings of a bump, just pressing up against his belt. Their baby, sleeping soundly inside him.

Hannibal glides into the room, handsome in a pale gray suit and silk tie. He carries the rack of lamb on a silver platter, setting it down in pride of place in the middle of the settings.

‘Smells delicious,’ Jack says, the compliment easy to say in their last meal together. Hannibal smiles, the humble, gracious host, and unbuttons his jacket to sit down across from his mate.

‘To new beginnings,’ he says, raising his glass of Chianti. ‘And old friends.’

Jack and Will lift their wineglasses to the toast and Will takes a sip, holding the blood-red liquid on his tongue for a long moment before swallowing. He can hear his heart, starting dim but getting louder. Getting faster. He glances at Jack, at his friend, his mentor, his former boss...

Jack, who gives Will an unspoken communication -- an almost imperceptible nod that doubles as a signal.

_Now._

Will glances at Hannibal. His Alpha. His mate. His partner. Hannibal, who offers a decisive glance – a cue of his own.

Will's heart skips a beat and begins to race.

_Now._

Jack’s arm tenses, just a fraction. He’s about to reach for his gun. But Will is not just a spectator in this scenario; he is a participant, and his pulse grows faster still. In that instant, he makes his decision and grabs Jack's arm, stopping his draw.

The Alpha’s eyes widen. Jack is hurt; stunned by his betrayal. Will's heartbeat reaches a hammering tattoo in his chest, bruising his ribs, but he can’t stop now.

He made his choice. He chose Hannibal. He chose his family.

_I love him._

Hannibal rises, wasting no time. He picks up the carving knife and draws it, swift and vicious, across Jack’s throat.

The skin parts, blood spurts and Will holds on tight as the other man struggles, fighting his death as surely as Will would fight his own.

‘I had to,’ he whispers, his skin burning wherever Jack’s blood touches him. He looks up, gazing with golden eyes into Hannibal’s Rut-red ones. ‘We belong together.’

Hannibal drops the knife. The blade clatters across the floor, spattering blood up the table leg and across the boards.

In his chair, Jack slumps, gasping and choking as the last of his life seeps from his throat.

‘Come to me,’ Hannibal whispers, holding out his hand, his face flecked with crimson and all the more beautiful for it. ‘Will; come to me.’

Will shoves his chair back and hurries around the table. He’s feverish; desperate to feel his Alpha inside him, over him, around him. Keeping him safe. Loving him. Owning him.

‘Was it ideal that Jack die?’ Hannibal asks, enfolding him in his arms as Will throws himself into the embrace.

Before he can answer, before he can center himself amidst the swirling chaos of his new reality, Will presses a fierce, furious kiss to his Alpha’s lips. He can taste the wine, Hannibal’s unique tang and copper; Jack’s blood is saturating the air and he’s swooning with it.

‘It was necessary,’ he pants, clutching tight to Hannibal’s waist as his knees grow weak. ‘What happened to Jack was… preordained. Had to happen… In some other world _didn’t_ happen…’

Hannibal glances down at him, irises thickly ringed with red, dancing with strange, dangerous lights.

‘You were thinking of betraying me,’ he purrs, sliding a hand through Will’s curls, cupping the side of his face and gazing into his eyes, worshiping him by touch and sight. ‘How different this night could have been.’

‘You might have left,’ Will says, running his hands up Hannibal’s back to hold onto his broad shoulders, relishing the lean muscles roping the other man’s body, pulling their hips flush together. ‘You could have disappeared into the night.’

‘We couldn’t leave without you,’ Hannibal replies, and Will tilts his head in question, rewarded with another kiss and a wink. ‘Come with me,’ Hannibal says, taking Will’s hand and leading him from the room. ‘I have a surprise for you.’

‘A surprise?’ Will follows close behind, trailing Hannibal upstairs and down the landing to their bedroom. ‘What…?’

His voice dies in his throat as Hannibal pushes open the door. His attention narrows to the young Beta before the fireplace, dressed for hunting in a khaki jacket and dark jeans. Her brown hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, revealing the garish gap where her ear was cut.

‘Abigail,’ he whispers, grabbing hold of the doorframe for support, shock robbing the remaining strength from his legs. Tears run down his cheeks, but he doesn’t make a move to wipe them away. He just stares at their daughter, his heart pounding and palms tingling.

‘I made a place for all of us,’ Hannibal murmurs, coming up behind him and hugging Will back to his chest, enfolding their hands across Will’s belly. ‘Together.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ Abigail whispers, blue eyes flicking from Hannibal to Will, nervous about her Will’s reaction. ‘I didn’t know what to do, so… I just did what he told me…’

‘No,’ Will whispers, stumbling free of Hannibal’s hold to grab Abi in a tight hug. ‘No, don’t be sorry… I’m just… I’m so _happy_.’

‘Time _did_ reverse,’ Hannibal says, drawing closer again and wrapping his arms around them both, tucking both brown heads under his chin. ‘The teacup that I shattered _did_ come together.’

 _We’re a family again. And nothing can ever tear us apart_.

***

They would have been in Florence by now.

Soldering the gears of his reclaimed boat engine, Will hefts the metal onto the bracket and slots them into place, tightening the nuts to keep them in place for the journey ahead.

The engine had been a mess of rust and cheap steel when he’d bought it at a salvage yard last month. His first act as a free man since leaving the hospital.

The gears fit together as perfectly as his body used to fit against Hannibal’s. As perfectly as their minds _still_ fit together. Flawless. Seamless. Two halves of the same whole.

He’s never missed him as much as he does right now.

Working in the shed tucked behind the farmhouse, a woolen hat pulled down over his ears and a thick, waved coat on to keep him warm, Will can almost, _almost_ pretend he’s in in Florence, and not Wolf Trap.

_Dr Roman and his Omega, Mr Luther Fell. Their daughter, Abigail and their son, Daniel… That’s Hannibal’s fantasy. My own includes Gracie, in a crib beside her brother. All of us, happy._

Or, at the very least, together.

He’s not broken enough to think that being with Hannibal will ever bring lasting happiness. Peace with a serial killer is fleeting; Hannibal will always toy with him, test and push him for his own amusement, always curious to see how he’ll react to different stimuli and scenarios.

But there is a calm to be found with the Alpha. A sense of stability in the predictability of the torture.

Hannibal had been so hurt, so _lost_ after he’d Cut Will. After he’d gutted him, almost certainly thinking he’d killed their baby and rendered him infertile…

_I did that to him. I hurt him in a way he didn’t think he could still be hurt._

The knowledge is humbling. And hateful. Will hates that he did that to Hannibal. Even after everything… After the prodrome and the asylum, after Abigail and Beverly…

_We’re perfect opposites. He doesn’t feel anything, and I feel it all._

But he did get through to him. He made him feel something, even for a little while. A flicker of humanity, creeping back through the darkness of his psychosis.

_If I reached him once, maybe I can do it again._

He doesn’t even know why he’s going to Europe. He just knows he has to find him. He has to be with him.

Even if it’s to kill him.

Focused on the engine, he doesn’t hear the crunch of tires on the snowy drive outside. Doesn’t hear as Jack Crawford climbs from his SUV, fedora pulled low, leather gloves on and scarf tucked into his jacket, shoulders hunched against the bitter Virginia wind.

_Winter again. It’s hard to believe it’s almost been a year._

There’s an old pickup next to Will’s Volvo. He knows from the Louisiana registration plate that it belongs to Will’s father, Bill Graham.

He hadn’t expected him to still be here. Will has recovered; that’s what the hospital report says.

As much as any Cut Omega _can_ recover, at least.

He doesn’t bother with the house; he can see a large sailboat in mid-construction, the hull freshly oiled and painted, new sails tightly folded against the elements. Behind that, in the barn, Will is clearly working on the motor.

The dogs greet him, their tails wagging, but he isn’t a threat so they don’t bark a warning. As Jack walks, fresh snow drifts from the sky, speckling Winston’s brown coat with white.

It’s only when he approaches the open doorway to the barn that Will finally pauses his work. The Omega glances back over his shoulder at him, blue eyes flashing gold, fingers trembling before resuming their methodical tightening of nuts and bolts.

Jack sighs. Not the warmest of welcomes. It doesn’t bode well.

‘I had hoped you would come look for me,’ he says, leaning back against the wooden doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest. ‘But I understand why you didn’t.’

 _No, you don’t,_ Will thinks, though the scream dies before it reaches his lips. Instead, he forces his breath out in a sigh, trying not to inhale too much of the Alpha’s scent when he takes a breath to speak.

‘What I can do for you, Jack?’

‘Well, I’m here to, er…’ Jack pauses, choosing his words with care. ‘… make sure you don’t _contradict_ the official narrative.’

Will sniffs against the cold, fine tremors wracking his frame.

‘Uh-huh.’

Jack narrows his eyes, feeling the irises prickle red at Will’s non-comital answer.

‘Well, we’re officers of the FBI,’ he says, his tone sharpening as he reminds Will of the report. ‘ _Wounded_ in the course of heroic duty. You, an Omega, trapped in an unwanted mating, manipulated into committing murders by your psychopathic Alpha… And I… I managed to rescue you whilst attempting to take down the Chesapeake Ripper.’

Will chokes down bile and reaches for the final bolt to secure the gears in place.

‘Well, that’s not true for _either_ of us,’ he replies, his tone waspish at the accusation of him being manipulated.

Poor little Omega. Helpless against his big bad Alpha.

_I knew exactly what I was doing. And I’d do it again, in a heartbeat._

‘Well, we were supposed to go together,’ Jack concedes, nodding at the back of the other man’s head. ‘That’s… that’s on me. My foul. My bad.’

_Abigail’s death is on me. Your wounds are on me._

‘Not all of our choices are consciously calculated,’ Will murmurs, his voice shaking as he struggles to put into words the bond with Hannibal.

‘No,’ Jack agrees, adjusting his glove to give him an excuse to stretch out the hand curling into a fist. ‘But our _decisions_ are.’ When Will continues to hold his tongue, Jack purses his lips and sighs. ‘Do you remember when you decided to call Hannibal?’

Will swallows the lump in his throat.

‘I… deliberated… while the phone rang,’ he says, trying for a light, offhand tone. He’s not sure he pulls it off. ‘I decided… when I heard his voice.’

_I decided when I felt my crest throb at the sound of his voice. When I thought about losing him._

‘You told him we knew,’ Jack growls, allowing some of his fury at the betrayal seep into his voice.

‘I told him to leave,’ Will replies. He told him in the same way that Hannibal told Garrett Jacob Hobbs. A shared secret, only they understood.

_He’d been curious what I would do, if the Alpha was waiting for me. I was curious what he would do, if he knew Jack was on his way._

_I had no idea it would go so horribly wrong._

‘I wanted him to run,’ he admits, his voice dropping to a whisper as his eyes fill with tears. He knows what Jack will ask next, and he knows, he _knows_ , he’ll finally have to tell him the truth. The whole of it.

‘Why?’ Jack snaps, frustrated and angry at the stupid, stubborn Omega in front of him.

Will shakes his head, letting his trembling hands rest on the engine for fear of dropping the remaining parts from numb fingers.

‘Um…’ He tries to speak. Tries to find the right words. To help Jack understand. ‘Because… he…’ He gulps. ‘He was my _mate_. And…’ He ducks his head, tears falling down his cheeks. ‘And I was _pregnant_.’ He glances up, his golden eyes unfixed as he stares into nothing, the truth drawn from him like poison from a wound. ‘And because I wanted to run away with him.’

_I chose him, Jack. Him. Not you._

Jack stares, his heart stumbling, shock making his ears ring.

‘You…’ He shakes his head, trying to clear the buzz. ‘You were _pregnant?’_ When Will doesn’t say anything, he continues, ‘With Hannibal’s child? The _Ripper’s_ child?’

‘ _My_ child,’ Will growls, turning to face him, a dirty rag between his hands. He’s done with the engine for now, and he’s more than done with this conversation. ‘My _children_.’

‘You…’ Jack swears under his breath and then he’s moving. He closes the distance in two strides and grabs Will by the front of his jacket, hauling him closer to glare into his face, his eyes blazing crimson. ‘Why didn’t you _tell_ me?’ he demands, giving the Omega a shake. ‘How long had you known?’

‘I hadn’t told _anyone_ ,’ Will hisses, bringing his hands up to hold onto Jack’s wrists, reminding him of the inappropriate grip without fighting it. ‘Not even my father.’

‘Jesus, Will…’ Jack releases him and slumps backwards, rubbing a hand over his grizzled face. ‘He _Cut you_ … Gutted you... He…’ He stares up, horror leeching the color from his cheeks. ‘Oh my God… He knew, didn’t he? Hannibal… He knew you were… And he still…’

Will’s lungs shrink, squeezing the breath from him. He manages a nod, the nape of his neck stinging like a fresh burn.

‘Yes.’

_He wanted to terminate the pregnancy. He wanted to take everything from me._

Jack shakes his head, tears shining in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he manages, staring at the man before him, unable to imagine the horror of having a bond shattered, having a crest shorn off as well as losing an unborn child at the hands of the Alpha who – ‘God, Will… If I can do _anything –_ ’

‘You can keep your mouth shut,’ Will snaps, tossing the rag down and walking past Jack towards the house. ‘You keep my secret and I’ll keep yours.’

‘Will…’ Jack follows him, slipping his way towards the back porch. He catches up with the Omega as Will pauses to remove his boots in the back of the kitchen, and then pulls up short when he sees the pair of highchairs by the breakfast counter.

‘Hey, Pops?’ Will calls, pulling his hat off and shrugging out of his jacket. ‘Have the twins had their feed, yet?’

‘Will.’ Jack grabs Will’s elbow and raises his eyebrows, flabbergasted, when Will looks at him.

‘Hannibal _cannot_ find out,’ the Omega growls, and Jack nods, letting go as he spies movement in the doorway.

Bill Graham looks from his son to the hulking Alpha just behind him. He has Gracie in his arms, the infant squirming in his grip at the sight of her father and the promise of formula.

‘Everythin’ alrigh’?’ he asks, suspicion adding a sharper twang to his Southern drawl. ‘Wan’ me to help with the feedin’?’

‘Pops, this is Jack Crawford,’ Will says, by way of introduction. When Jack steps forward with his hand outstretched to shake, Bill does so with narrowed eyes.

‘So, you’re the Alpha responsible for puttin’ my son in danger on the regular,’ he says, giving Jack the briefest shake he can get away with. ‘Wish I could say it’s good t’meet ya.’

‘Your son’s an exceptional FBI Investigator, Mr Graham,’ Jack says, allowing the Beta his display of protectiveness. He admires that sort of strength. It’s honorable. ‘He’s saved a lot of lives.’

‘Can you give us a minute?’ Will asks, taking Gracie from his father and nuzzling the soft golden hair on her head. ‘I’ll feed ‘em in here.’

‘Sure,’ Bill says, turning away with his familiar loping walk to fetch Daniel from the playpen in the front room.

Will settles Gracie into her highchair and Jack sits at the dining table nearby, watching with an odd mixture of awe and unease as the infant manages to steady herself enough to sit up against the padded backrest.

‘How old are they?’ he asks, trying to work out the timeline in his head, unnerved by the similarity to Hannibal that he can see in the cheekbones and brows of the child.

Will, holding Danny close as he moves around the kitchen preparing two bottles of formula, glances at Jack and his daughter.

‘Six months next week,’ he murmurs, giving the first bottle a vigorous shake to mix the powder and water together. ‘It’s part of why I was in the hospital for so long.’

 _That_ , he thinks, kissing Daniel’s brown curls, _and this little guy needed more help even after his lungs developed._

‘What’s the status of your legal guardianship?’ Jack asks, watching Will as the Omega prepares the second bottle.

The question stings and Will focuses on the hot water going into Daniel’s milk bottle, instead of the ugly emotions swirling in his chest. It takes a while for him to find his voice and, when he speaks, it’s weak.

‘I… don’t know.’

He can’t bring himself to look at Jack as he returns to the table, both bottles in one hand, Daniel in the other and two muslin cloths over his shoulder. He focuses on the task at hand, securing a bib around each baby’s neck and settling Daniel into the crook of his arm, the smaller twin less able to sit up whilst being fed.

‘Need any help?’ Jack asks, though he makes no move to interfere. He doesn’t know the first thing about kids, after all, and these are _Hannibal Lecter’s_ children.

The thought makes him cringe.

‘I’ve got it,’ Will mutters, holding the bottle in place as Gracie feeds, one-handedly feeding Daniel at an awkward angle certain to give him wrist-ache. ‘Do it all the time.’

Jack nods, glancing towards the doorway through which Bill Graham disappeared.

‘How long’s your Dad staying with you?’ he asks, more to make conversation than out of a real desire to know.

‘Long as it takes,’ Will replies, adjusting Gracie’s bottle so she doesn’t swallow air. ‘Listen, Jack… I won’t risk the official narrative. I won’t say anything to anyone.’

Jack hums, and then turns sharp eyes on the Omega.

‘What’s with the boat, Will?’

Will attempts a shrug without disturbing the feeding babes.

‘Just a project,’ he says. ‘Something to keep my mind occupied.’

_It’s not a lie. Not really. It is a project… To fix the boat and find Hannibal. It’s the only thing keeping my mind from shattering every morning when I wake up._

‘Is it helping?’ Jack asks, allowing him the lie. ‘Having something to focus on?’

‘It’s better than nothing,’ Will mutters. ‘It’s really just a way to pass the time.’

 _That’s really all I’m doing, now_ , he thinks, returning his attention to the babes. _Passing time until I’m with Hannibal again._

_Until I can kill him._

***

The sound of breaking glass is almost… musical. Fractured shards tinkle as they shatter on the ground, glistening in the streetlight.

Alana doesn’t register the pain at first. When she lands, the breath is knocked out of her so much that she panics, and the feeling of drowning occupies her mind. Then, as oxygen rushes back into her brain, millions of nerves fire, warning her of the agony in her broken body.

Distantly, she’s aware that Will drapes his coat over her, protecting her shock-cold body from the rain pouring down, but it is Hannibal who leaves. The Alpha doesn’t look at her; his fiery red eyes are wet with tears, and he simply steals the coat from her, wrapping it tight around his bloodstained shirt before disappearing into the night.

That was a month ago.

Now, lying alone in a sterile chamber lit by frosted glass lights, she tries not to think about that night. Tries not to think about the damage done by the fall.

Tries not to think about the fact that she may never walk again.

Her hips are pinned in place by spokes, attached to a semi-circle frame above her pelvis. It looks like the wheel to a carriage, and she can’t help but think of the old Medieval torture device known as the Breaking Wheel.

_I’ve been bent and twisted out of shape… Physically and mentally._

The air, once still but for her gentle, deliberate breaths, stirs. Alana’s senses sharpen and her nostrils flare. She can smell flowers; lilies and chrysanthemums, roses and something else, something she doesn’t know. Cologne; expensive but distasteful. Hair gel, wool and leather, and all of it masking the subtly different scent of Frederick Chilton.

‘What I said before, I will say again,’ he purrs, sauntering into the ICU suite and approaching Alana from the end of the bed. Uncovered, her bare body is mottled with bruises and cuts, each wound slowly healing in the warm air. ‘Which is something you _cannot_ say.’ He smirks. ‘That I did not warn you.’

_Told you so._

The juvenile taunt makes her want to snarl at him. Instead, she does her best not to even clench her jaw; the slightest movement sends shockwaves of pain through her body and if she doesn’t hold perfectly still, the damage to her spine could be irreparable.

‘Cannot see what you will not see,’ she replies, wishing she had more than just bandages over her breasts and white panties under the hip brace. Frederick’s gaze is lecherous.

‘Until it shoves you out a window,’ Frederick says, arching one perfectly groomed eyebrow.

Alana chews her tongue, choosing not to rise to the bait.

‘I’ve always enjoyed the word “defenestration”,’ she muses, gazing up at the ceiling tiles high above her. ‘Now, I get to use it in casual conversation.’

‘How many bones did you break?’ Frederick asks, softly awed by the strength of the woman before him.

Alana’s lips twitch into the glimmer of a smirk.

‘You say that like _I_ broke them.’

‘You got yourself to the window, Dr Bloom,’ Frederick replies. ‘If not through it.’

‘They told me a lot of marrow got into my blood,’ Alana says, her voice cool. Dispassionate. ‘That my body underwent _severe_ cellular changes.’ Her blue eyes flicker red, and Frederick’s pulse quickens. ‘And that I should expect to find myself… _different_.’

‘You’re…’ Dr Chilton draws closer, moving up the side of the bed until he can show her the bunch of flowers held loosely in one hand. ‘Well, my, my… Welcome to the ranks of Alpha, my dear.’

Alana doesn’t reply, just watches him, waiting for his next move, and eventually the red fades back to a newly formed ring of crimson around the edge of her irises.

‘I do not mean to kick you when you are down,’ Frederick lies, gazing at her with something he must imagine is sympathy, but which more closely resembles disdain. ‘I’m just reminding you how you _got_ down.’

‘And who I’m down _with_ ,’ Alana says. Despite Frederick’s self-obsession, her mind drifts to Will. The Omega is still in an induced coma, in a highly intensive care unit of a specialist Omega hospital. Only his immediate family is permitted entry; even the FBI are having to wait before they can question him.

None of them will ever be the same.

‘We could all use a little… _group_ _therapy_ while we’re down here,’ Frederick murmurs, curious as to how Will might feel once – _if_ – he ever wakes up. Knowing that he was pregnant… That Hannibal gutted and Cut him, surely killing the child…

How deliciously terrible.

Alana’s smirk is cold, cutting and all-too-knowing.

‘There’s only one “we” you’re really interested in, Frederick,’ she says, cutting through all the bullshit of his flowers and fake sympathy. ‘And that “we” isn’t really interested in _you_.’

_Or capable of talking to you._

‘Will Graham could still pull through,’ Frederick replies, determined to keep closer tabs on the Omega during his journey to recovery. ‘And, when he does, he’ll need a breakthrough.’

‘Being broken was his breakthrough,’ Alana says, sighing softly.

Frederick shakes his head.

‘Being broken was _yours_.’ His heart skips a beat, eyes flashing crimson in excitement. ‘Will has not had his breakthrough, yet. He is saving _that_ for Dr Lecter.’

‘It would be the best thing for their bond, really,’ Alana muses, shrewd and calculating in a way she never was before.

Frederick huffs a growl and leans down closer to her.

‘It’s only a matter of time before Will wakes up and they’re back in each other’s orbit,’ he says. ‘Shame not to have good seats… If only to support _poor Will_.’

‘That would require some manipulation,’ she says, and Frederick hums his agreement.

‘Some “English on the ball” as it were,’ he purrs, and Alana’s smile widens. Holds. Remains there as a spark of interest flares in her eyes.

 _Oh yes_ , Frederick thinks, placing the flowers on the little tray beside her bed. _She’s mine._

Now, they just need Will to wake up.

***

_Seven months later_

Returning to the townhouse is hard. Harder than she’d thought it would be.

Taking a deep breath, her heart racing and palms sweaty on the handles of her wheelchair, Alana pushes herself through the entrance foyer, ignoring the dust-strewn décor until she can open the doors to the dining room.

She’d run from him, here. Fled for her life and then had it ruined. Had it _changed_.

She isn’t the same person she was that night. She isn’t even the same _caste_ anymore.

When she turns her head, looking towards the kitchen, she can still see Hannibal in full Rut. The Alpha had been vicious that night; like an animal. Slamming his body against the door of the pantry, desperate to get at Jack hiding inside.

_He’d shown himself as who he truly was. What he truly is._

The floor now is clear of blood. With the lights off, the shadows pool in the corners, lurking there like demons. She can almost _hear_ Hannibal’s voice, whispering into her ear, slithering across her consciousness like a razor-tipped tongue.

‘You were so afraid of me the last time I saw you… Before that last time I saw you…’

Drawing closer, inch by inch, her pulse races as a boot comes into view. Scuffed toes, worn laces… It isn’t the Alpha.

It may as well be.

Will is sitting on the floor, knees to his chest and arms draped around them. His gaze is vacant, golden eyes gleaming in the low light.

He looks like a man who has suffered too much to go on, and yet doesn’t have what it takes to die.

‘What are _you_ doing here?’

When he speaks, Will’s voice is soft. Muted. He doesn’t have the energy for anything more. Being here is… painful. It clogs his throat and makes the back of his neck prickle; echoes of the screaming pain he’d felt at having his crest sliced off.

‘I guess I’m looking for you,’ Alana says, her voice equally hushed. The house feels like a tomb, now; a mausoleum to pain and madness.

Will hums, though he doesn’t move.

‘That’s a good guess.’

Alana frowns, unease shivering up and down her spine.

‘What are _you_ doing here?’ she asks, red-ringed eyes dancing over her former friend’s slim frame; his gentle features and curling hair.

_I could have bonded you… Taken you in and sheltered you. None of this would have happened. Even as a Beta, I could have offered you that._

‘Visiting old friends,’ Will murmurs, and Alana’s eyes once more track around the still and silent room. Her belly squirms and a bitter taste settles on her tongue.

Perhaps it’s from Will. She’s still getting used to her new senses, and his scent is sharp with distress.

‘You’re not tempted to forget?’ she asks, and Will’s voice catches before he says, roughly,

‘I don’t _want_ to forget.’ He sighs, as if trying to force out the tension gathering between them. ‘I’m building rooms in my Memory Palace for all my friends and family.’

‘A relationship with Hannibal is blackmail elevated to the level of love,’ Alana warns, and Will sniffs a wry agreement.

‘A mutually unspoken pact,’ he says, ‘to ignore the worst in one another in order to continue enjoying the best.’

_There was anything good in Hannibal?_

Alana doesn’t voice her skepticism, but it hangs there like a whipcrack, nonetheless.

‘After everything he’s done,’ she says, biting her tongue for a moment as she fights a scream. ‘After everything he _took_ from you… Can you still ignore the worst in him?’

Will doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch at the reminder of the stabbing. The Cutting. The baby. But, when he closes his eyes, a single tear rolls down his cheek and Alana feels like a monster for reminding him of what happened.

Even if it _is_ for his own good.

‘I came here to be alone, Alana.’ The Omega’s voice is cold; his tone final. When he rolls his head to look up at her, there is a hard, flat look in his eyes and Alana knows she’ll get no further with him.

The fractured relationship they once thought they had is over. There’s no going back to the way things were.

Will isn’t just stumbling around in the darkness, anymore. He’s become one with it.

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

Withdrawing from the room, Alana leaves him to his demons. Will waits until the click of her wheelchair rollers has faded and then turns his head.

Abigail sits beside him, dressed in the hunting gear from that night, her face splattered with blood and throat cut.

She smiles at him, gentle understanding in her eyes.

Will needs this. He needs to say goodbye to everything he lost, here. Everything he could have had and will never have again.

Sanity. Certainty. Freedom.

He’s connected to Hannibal by more than just biology. That bond may be broken, severed the moment the knife cut the nerves, but it won’t be over until at least one of them is dead.

And nobody deserves to kill Hannibal Lecter more than Will Graham.

***

As soon as she can drive again, Alana accepts the offer to interview to be Mason Verger’s therapist. She follows the signs for Muskrat Farm, her new black Jeep bumping over the rough track of a service road winding up through the forest of the estate.

Pausing before a turn, she rolls her window down and scents the air, a low purr catching in her throat at the smell of sugar, jasmine and earth.

A female Omega is out riding, cantering her horse over a low bridge to jump the narrow bank up to a winding trail. Alana can feel her muscles tighten, her breath catching and eyes prickling at the urge to abandon the car and chase after her.

Omega aside, she’s one of the most attractive women she’s ever seen.

They arrive at the stables almost simultaneously. Alana slows the Jeep and parks beside a Jaguar and a Bentley stored under an overhang, almost forgetting her cane in her haste to keep up with the mysterious young woman.

Margot Verger glances back over her shoulder, feeling Dr Bloom’s hot, hungry gaze on her as she saunters into the barn. She smiles, her rouged-lips plump from the cold and blue eyes thickly golden as the Alpha’s scent reaches her on the breeze. Roses and fire; raw but feminine and _richly_ powerful.

Playing coy, Margot waits until Dr Bloom is in the barn doorway before turning, feigning surprise at seeing that she followed.

Alana smiles at the coquettish Omega, trying not to lean too heavily on her ebony and silver-handled walking cane.

‘I’m Dr Bloom,’ she says, pitching her voice low so as not to unnerve the other woman. Margot turns, her gloved hands stroking up and down another horse’s head as she smiles.

‘ _You’re_ the new psychiatrist,’ she purrs, inviting Alana to draw closer. The Alpha, predictably, obliges.

‘I went one exit too far on the expressway,’ she says, looking around with feigned embarrassment. ‘Came back along the service road…’ Her eyes flash crimson, perfectly matching her shade of lipstick. ‘I’m not sure if this is my entrance?’

Margot blushes and smirks as she waves an inviting hand around. She has to admire the Alpha’s poise.

‘This _can_ be your entrance,’ she replies, batting her eyelashes at the other woman. ‘It isn’t easy to find the first time you come.’ She can see that the innuendo isn’t lost on the Alpha, and extends a hand to shake. ‘I’m Margot Verger.’

Alana smiles, purring softly at the touch of glove against glove, feeling the warmth of Margot’s skin even through the leather, and she covers it by gesturing around them.

‘Bewitching beauty about this place,’ she offers, watching carefully as Margot rolls her eyes and turns away.

‘Yes,’ the Omega agrees, falling into her bored, drawling monotone. ‘Isn’t there…?’

 _So_ , Alana thinks, _you dislike Muskrat Farm intensely… At least one of the rumors must be true._

‘You should see it in the spring,’ Margot adds, a note of true fondness warming her voice. ‘Riot of lilacs and the wind smells nothing at _all_ like the stockyards and slaughterhouses one _usually_ associates with the Verger name.’

‘Can you please let your brother know I’m here?’ Alana asks, sensing a deeper level of loathing in Margot’s dislike of the meat-packing industry upon which her ancestors built their fortune.

Margot sighs and loosens the strap of her riding helmet.

‘He knows.’

_He always knows everything._

They walk the rest of the way to the Mansion in a quiet only broken by the clack of Alana’s heels and cane, and the occasional sound of Margot’s riding boots on marble. Once they reach the entrance to the drawing room, however, where the terrace windows are open to reveal a mechanized wheelchair overlooking the lawns and fountain, Margot speaks again.

‘Some people have trouble talking with Mason,’ she says, glancing at the Alpha beside her. ‘So, if it bothers you, or you can’t take it, I’d be happy to answer any questions that you have.’

Alana nods and smiles.

‘Thank you,’ she murmurs, barely resisting the urge to reach out and give the Omega’s fragile wrist a comforting squeeze. She can smell the distress in Margot’s scent as easily as she read the tension in her body, and she isn’t used to the surge of Alpha protectiveness she’s read so much about.

‘Margot!’ A muffled, nasal voice calls through from the terrace, and Margot’s eyes flash bright gold at the sound of her brother’s voice. ‘You can leave us, now.’

Margot glances at Alana; at the sweet, naïve young Alpha willing to take the job of Mason Verger’s therapist.

‘If my brother offers you _chocolate_ ,’ she warns, arching one perfectly penciled eyebrow; ‘politely refuse.’

Alana waits until the smaller woman has left the room and then smiles, her eyes sharpening. She steps carefully down the ramp, her cane leading the way out onto the uneven ground of the terrace.

‘Good afternoon, Dr Bloom.’ Mason Verger speaks without turning the wheelchair, his scarred face pointed away from her so that all she can see is the broken edge of his jaw.

When he turns the wheelchair, using only his forefinger on a mechanized joystick, Alana gets a full view of his damaged face.

Lipless; slits for nostrils… Layers of skin reconstructed from grafts taken from his thighs and buttocks… A pair of glasses perched on the precarious bridge of a nose created from pig collagen… And bright blue eyes, all the more piercing for their perfection in such an imperfect face.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Verger.’ Alana allows her gaze to wander the damage, taking it all in without flinching.

Mason’s eyes twinkle at the challenge.

‘You know,’ he drawls, struggling to get a breath in the cold air, without his apparatus. ‘I thank _God_ for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Dr Bloom? Do you have _faith?’_

‘I was raised in a religious atmosphere, Mr Verger,’ Alana replies, her gloved hand tightening just a fraction on the silver handle of the walking stick. ‘But whatever that left me with… it’s not religion.’

‘Left me with more,’ Mason says. ‘You see, I’m _free_ , Dr Bloom.’ He turns the wheelchair to look out across the lawns again. ‘I’m right with the Risen Jesus and it’s all okay now.’ He winks at her. ‘And _nobody_ beats the Riz.’ His constructed lips stick for a moment but then he manages to flick his tongue between the crack and wet them enough to speak again. ‘He will rise me up and smite mine enemies, and I shall hear the lamentations of their women.’ He smirks, looking her up and down. ‘That was once _you_ , I’m told.’ His smirk turns dirtier, still. ‘Dr Lecter got deeper inside _you_ than he did any of us… Except for that slut, Will Graham, of course.’

He coughs, choking on saliva dribbling back down his esophagus and into his lungs. With his broken spine, he doesn’t have the strength to swallow properly and Alana watches, dispassionate, as he struggles for air.

A glob of phlegm comes back up, dribbling down Mason’s emaciated chin, and Alana sighs as if watching a toddler’s tantrum.

If Mason were to die right now, she wouldn’t be that upset. He was rude, after all.

‘Do you want me to get the nurse?’ she asks, in a bored voice. Mason struggles for a moment longer and sinks into the chair, drooping even more than normal in the straps keeping him in place.

‘No, no,’ he manages, sucking sweet air into thankfully clear lungs. ‘I’m _fine_ now…’ He raises his eyebrows up at her and manages a smile. ‘It’s all okay now.’

Alana nods and steers the conversation back to topic.

‘You’re supposed to share any _relevant_ information you find on Hannibal Lecter with the FBI,’ she reminds him, and Mason gives a non-comital hum. Alana’s eyes flicker red. ‘Have you always done that?’

‘Not exactly,’ Mason admits, and then he frowns at the female Alpha before him. ‘I want you to understand, Dr Bloom, that this is not a “revenge thing”. I have forgiven Dr Lecter, as our Savior forgave the Roman soldiers.’

 _Oh please,_ Alana thinks, fighting hard to roll her eyes at the Beta’s inflated sense of his own self-worth. Comparing his situation to that of Jesus Christ…

_Pathetic._

Still, Mason Verger is rich and he has contacts. In that respect, and that respect only, he is powerful. And right now, Alana wants to use him.

‘Forgiveness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Mr Verger,’ she purrs, and she quirks an eyebrow above a smiling red mouth. ‘I don’t need religion to appreciate the idea of Old Testament revenge.’

***

Jack remembers phoning Bella.

He’d been in the pantry; bleeding out from the glass sticking from his throat, his life not just slipping through his fingers but spurting out with every beat of his frantic heart.

He’d wrapped his tie around his neck, squeezing tight to stem the flow. The pain had been fast giving way to shock; shock that would rob him of his consciousness and then his life.

Bella had answered just before the phone clicked to voicemail. By then, everything had begun to fade and he’d felt himself slipping, not even falling asleep, just…

Nothing.

He’d been nothing. Floating in emptiness; no pain, no fear, no life.

And then…

‘Jack?’ A weak voice. A ragged breath. ‘Are you _there?’_

Is he? He doesn’t know.

His eyelids are so heavy, but the need to see his precious Omega compels him to open them. It doesn’t make sense, at first; Bella is lying beside him, far enough way to know they’re not sharing a bed but close enough that he can see the flecks of amber in her golden eyes.

Close enough that she can hold his hand; a lifeline tethering him to this world. To her.

He blinks, taking a slow, deep breath as his lungs get used to working again.

‘Did I die?’ he asks, his voice rough, catching at the ripping pain in his throat. Bella sighs, her lungs whistling as she tries to take another ragged breath.

‘You did a lot of things,’ she manages, closing her eyes in exhaustion at the conversation. ‘Dying may have been among them.’ As Jack stares up at the ceiling, shocked that he’s here, that he’s still alive, Bella hums a tiny laugh. ‘For once… I’m glad you’re stubborn.’

‘What’s good for the goose,’ Jack murmurs, and Bella smiles, her lips tinged with blue.

_Is good for the gander. But not with this. Not this time._

‘You’re not going into the ground with me, Jack,’ she says, frowning at him from across the gap. ‘So _stop_ trying.’

Jack listens to his heart for a moment. The steady _thud… thud… thud…_

‘I was _dead_ ,’ he whispers, rolling his head to look at her again. ‘I _know_ I was _dead_.’

_How am I still here? How did I come back?_

‘All that was left for me to do was _die_.’

He’d found the Ripper. Confronted him… and lost. His work was done. His career at the FBI was over.

_Why did I come back?_

‘I thought… if I could hear your voice,’ he mumbles, giving Bella’s cold fingers another squeeze. ‘We both wouldn’t have to die alone…’

‘I’m not afraid of dying,’ Bella gasps, wheezing for tiny snatches of air in lungs that feel like sacks of sand. ‘I’m not afraid of what it… will be like… to be dead. I’m… more curious… of any what-ifs than I am of any absolutes…’ When Jack looks at her again, she purrs softly. A high, melodic and uniquely Omegan sound. The same sound from their wedding day. From when they mated. From all those shared, intimate moments together throughout their lives. ‘ _You_ can do something… I can’t,’ she says. ‘You can cut out… what’s killing you.’

_Your hatred. Your need for revenge. Your thirst for the hunt._

Jack listens, and the words stir something deep inside. He _can_ cut it out…

He can cut Hannibal Lecter out of the world, and they can all begin to heal.

***

Frederick Chilton comes to find him after failing with Dr Bloom and Will Graham.

Jack has been in and out of the office for the better part of the last year. There’s the investigation into his misconduct, the search of Dr Lecter’s house – and the basement of horrors revealed once the secret door in the pantry can be opened – and then the formalities of wrapping up his once-prestigious career.

Amidst the dozen loose ends to tie up, Dr Chilton arranges a meeting with him.

‘Every useful hoop our mind can jump through begins with a certain degree of attention,’ he says, once the pleasantries are done with and they each have a glass of whisky. ‘Focus,’ he adds, ‘is the most important thing any of us can do. _You…?’_ Dr Chilton sighs, dismayed to see the great Jack Crawford looking so… old. ‘You are _losing_ focus, Jack.’

It’s his last day, and Jack is busy packing up his final box of personal items. He tips his glass, acknowledging the words, but replies,

‘I have _refocused_.’

‘Forced retirement at the FBI?’ Frederick scoffs. ‘You fall in love with the Bureau, but it does _not_ fall in love with you.’

_The fiasco with Hannibal and Will… Everything that happened… Forced retirement was a kindness._

Jack rolls his eyes.

‘Behavioral Sciences doesn’t have the resources,’ he says, parroting the excuse they gave him. ‘Homeland Security is the priority now. Terrorists are more frightening than psychopaths.’

_As long as the psychopaths stay quiet, anyway._

Frederick’s eyes flash red, contrasting sharply against his navy blue coat, and he sets his empty glass down on the desk.

‘Not to _me_.’

‘Really?’ Jack arches an eyebrow. ‘The first thing you did after getting _shot_ in the _face_ was _copyright_ “Hannibal the Cannibal”.’

_Tasteless._

‘A catchphrase is a trademark and protected as a form of property,’ Frederick says, unapologetic. He smirks. ‘ _You_ are alive because you did not pull that glass from your neck. Will _Graham_ is alive because Hannibal Lecter _likes him that way_.’

‘Well,’ Jack says, sliding his last framed award into the box, ‘maybe it’s one of those relationships that _ends_ after being Cut and murdering your children.’

Frederick’s eyes gleam.

‘So you _do_ know about the pregnancy.’ He smirks. ‘Still, I would argue that, with these two, that’s tantamount to flirtation.’ His pulse quickens and he steps around the desk, his scent sharpening in anticipation of the hunt. ‘Will is going to lead you _right_ to him.’

‘Oh, no, he’s not,’ Jack replies, giving him a warning smile at the closeness. ‘Not to _me_. I’ve let them both go.’ He locks eyes with Chilton, holding his gaze with unwavering focus as he adds, pointedly, ‘I’ve let it _all_ go.’

_I’m done. I’m done with psychopaths and twisted Bonds and children bearing Hannibal Lecter’s face._

Frederick narrows his eyes at the callous, cold-hearted Alpha before him.

‘You dangle Will Graham and now you cut bait?’ As much as he’d hate to admit it, he is protective over the Omega. Will’s been through so much… To abandon him now would be _cruel._ ‘You’re letting Hannibal have him; hook, line and sinker.’

Jack considers him for a moment longer, giving nothing away in his expression, and then he smiles coldly.

‘You’ll excuse me, Dr Chilton,’ he says, capping the whisky and adding it to the box. ‘I like to be home in the evening when my mate wakes.’

And, just like that, their impromptu meeting is over. Jack picks up his box, strides from the room and flicks off the lights just to hammer home the point that they are through.

Standing alone in the gloom of the empty office, Frederick releases a low, frustrated snarl. Dr Bloom is in place, yes, but without a way of tracking Will, he’ll never get Hannibal Lecter into his asylum.

Jack is lying… He has to be lying… Surely?

***

_You’re not following me into the ground, Jack._

When Bella’s breathing falters for the second day in a row, he knows it’s time.

Marking his place in his Italian phrasebook, Jack rises to heavy feet and crosses the still and silent bedroom. Bella’s chest barely rises now; she’s too weak, too exhausted as her body fights for the breath is desperately needs.

She hasn’t woken since yesterday. Her curls fan across the pillow; her cold hands sit atop the covers and her scent is a swirling mix of sweetness laced with the bitter tang of pain.

 _I love you so much_ , Jack thinks, sinking onto the mattress bedside her, holding her hand carefully between his own palms before stroking up and down her arm.

The ragged little breaths sound as painful as they must feel. They catch, wheeze, rasp. Crackle in lungs weighed down by tumors.

_I’ll remember you as you were. I promise._

Jack touches the wedding ring. Kisses soft, moisturized knuckles, sucking his Omega’s scent as deep into his lungs as he can.

He’ll never get another chance after this.

Now. It has to be now. Before he loses his nerve.

Jack goes to the medicine cabinet, where rows and rows of little morphine bottles sit waiting to be used. He checks Bella’s chart, where her last dose – barely an hour ago – is written in his own, neat hand.

_I love you, Bella._

Opening a new syringe, he takes the morphine and the needle to the bedside. Glances down, one last time, and sees Bella struggle to take another faltering, useless breath.

_It’s alright, my love. I’m with you._

Piercing the foil lid of the morphine bottle, Jack withdraws just enough morphine to ease Bella’s suffering. He injects it into the IV bag and watches as the clear liquid mixes with the saline.

With each drip of liquid into Bella’s veins, she’ll finally be free.

He sits with her as it happens. Cradles her head close to his chest and strokes her hair, purring to reassure her that she’s not alone. That she’s safe.

_I’m right here, baby. I’m right here with you. Until the end._

She won’t die alone.

***

The bedroom is too big when she’s gone. The covers are made, the pillows plumped and the bedside clear of creams and medicines.

It’s too quiet without the blip of the heart monitor. He hadn’t realized how comforting it had been until its absence screams in the silence.

‘Jack?’

Bella’s voice tugs at him. Makes him raise wet eyes from the bed. His beloved Omega, his _everything_ , is standing by the window, as healthy and full of vitality as the day they met. Bella smiles at him, holding up a white satin dress.

Jack manages a smile, even as tears roll down his cheeks and his throat aches.

‘God,’ he manages, ‘I love you in white.’

Bella had worn white for him almost every day after their wedding. Even if it was just lingerie; a frothy bra or a pair of lace panties… Anything for her Alpha.

_She was the strongest, kindest woman I’ve ever known._

‘Jack?’

It’s not Bella, but Alana Bloom. She holds up the dress; one of several draped carefully across a chair. They need to choose an outfit to cremate Bella in. A fist of ice closes around Jack’s heart and pain stabs him at the core.

_I love you in white…_

He nods. Fights to find the strength to speak.

‘She’ll look beautiful,’ he manages, and then he moves to the window, staring down at the cherry blossoms lining the street outside. ‘Bella’s dead,’ he says, as if somehow saying it, again and again, will make it real. Make it feel… different. ‘That should change the view from these windows.’ His eyes flash red. ‘It’s not _right_ if the _view_ stays the same.’

_I can’t stay here… I can’t be here, surrounded by memories of her… Memories of my failure._

‘It’s not right.’

***

The Omegas who dress her are precise. Perfect in the way they dress her and apply makeup. She looks like she could be sleeping, if not for the unnatural stillness of her body. No twitches. No breathing. No signs of life, however small.

Jack remembers the first time they held a ceremony here in this church. Their wedding day. Bella had looked radiant in her white gown sewn with pearls and crystals, her hair held up with her grandmother’s pin and her hands clasped around a bouquet of flowers.

It had been her father’s wish to see them married, officially, even years after they had been mated. General Crowe had wanted to see his daughter walk down the aisle, to be claimed by the Alpha she loved before God and men.

Now, Jack leans down and places a lingering kiss on Bella’s cool forehead as she rests in the coffin before the altar.

The church will be busy, soon enough. For now, he has her to himself. One last time.

Candles burn at the end of each pew. Flowers adorn the coffin, many of them from friends and loved ones.

A distinctive copperplate catches Jack’s gaze and hot bile scratches his throat. Here? Now? Hannibal Lecter has the fucking nerve to –

Snarling under his breath, Jack takes a moment to compose himself before plucking the heavy parchment envelope from the bouquet of scabious, begonia, blue and white roses, amaryllis and alstroemeria.

Beautiful wife, devoted partner, dearly loved and forever missed. The message is clear, and the flowers are tied with a black silk ribbon. There’s no tag; no trademark. As he turns from Bella, shielding her from the filth of Dr Lecter’s note of condolence, Jack can’t help but shiver and look around the quiet, empty church.

_How did he know she had died? How did he know I would be here?_

He opens it slowly, half-expecting poison or some other devilish thing to come slithering from the envelope. When it doesn’t, he reads the words written on the page.

“O wrangling schools, that search what fire

Shall burn this world, had none the wit

Unto this knowledge to aspire,

That this her feaver might be it?”

Underneath the extract of poem is a single line.

_I’m so sorry about Bella, Jack._

Hatred takes his knees out from under him. The strength of his revulsion shocks him and Jack sinks to the front pew, breathing slowly and carefully so as not to be sick.

Hannibal has tainted this moment. The cruelty of his actions is breathtaking.

Another scent drifts on the air. It soothes some of the sting of Hannibal’s sadism.

Will Graham quietly takes a seat behind his former boss, golden eyes shielded behind tinted glasses, wearing his formal suit and a dark tie.

‘I opened my eyes this morning,’ Jack says, still holding the letter from Hannibal, feeling that, if he puts it down, it might grow legs and skitter across the floor to attack his beloved Bella. ‘And, at _that_ moment, before the weight of the day came for me, I didn’t even _think_ about Bella dying…’ He sighs. ‘I still think she was hoping to die while I was out of the room. But… I was there when her heart stopped. And I held onto her… until her brain died.’

‘I hope she’s… somewhere today, Jack.’ Will’s voice, when he speaks, is muted. Hoarse with the grief he can’t help but feel from the other man. Jack’s loss isn’t just a wound; it’s a gaping abyss where his whole world used to be. ‘And that she’s comfortable.’

Jack nods, another tear slipping down his grizzled cheek.

‘I hope she can see in my heart,’ he whispers, but then he has to pause. Has to gather his strength again. ‘She had to die on me… I knew it was coming, but it still smarts.’

_The loss. I lost Bella, and I hate losing._

He sets his jaw.

‘I know what’s coming for you, Will. You don’t have to die on me, too.’

He gets up and hands Will the envelope. Buttons his suit jacket back up and smooths out his tie.

He has guests to greet, and in-laws to care for on this day of mourning.

God only knows what Will might make of the poem. He can’t afford to care, right now. He has his own Omega to focus on.

***

‘Ow… _Ow_ …’

Strong, thick fingers push the gel of the mask into fragile skin, sending razor-sharp pain searing through Mason Verger’s face. He glares up through wet eyes at the Beta standing over him, hating the coldly amused smirk on the male nurse’s face.

The mask is peeled off, cool air like a slap to his cheeks, and then the fingers are back, pushing and kneading, agony ricocheting through his skull until he wants to scream.

‘I said, _OW!’_

‘Blood is flowing,’ Cordell replies, ignoring his employer’s protests and continuing to massage the reconstructed tissue. ‘Nerves are intact. Pain is a good thing.’

‘This is why you could never legally work in the health industry, Cordell,’ Mason grumbles, his fingers spasming at the torture. ‘They were gonna throw you away. You would have been _wasted_ … _OW!’_

‘Scar tissue,’ Cordell says, pressing again on screaming cheekbones, ‘is an awesome demonstration of self-preservation. The flesh’s fight to exist, down to the most basic _cell_ , is a wonder.’

As he steps away, Mason uses the joystick on the wheelchair to move from a horizontal back to near-sitting position.

‘At Communions around the earth,’ he says, reveling in the rush of dizziness such rapid movement brings him, ‘the devout belief that, through the miracle of transubstantiation, they eat the flesh and blood of Christ.’

Cordell slides Mason’s glasses back onto his face, allowing him to see the room more clearly.

‘It is an impressive ceremony,’ he agrees, wiping his hands off on a towel. Mason hums.

‘I need to prepare an even _more_ impressive ceremony,’ he says, thinking of his own god. ‘With no transubstantiation necessary.’

The larger Beta rubbed massage oil between his wide palms and bent down to rub it into Mason’s wasted legs, caring for his weak, vulnerable skin.

‘Cordell,’ Mason says, only aware of the nurse’s actions by his line of sight, having no feeling from his jaw down. ‘I have known you to be absolutely reliable and capable of almost anything. Is that true?’

‘It is not _untrue_ ,’ Cordell agrees, his eyes gleaming.

‘I pay you a large salary to be responsible for my care and feeding,’ Mason says, and Cordell replies without lifting his gaze from the skinny legs.

‘And _all_ that that entails.’

‘And all that that entails,’ Mason agrees. He wets his new, oddly smooth lips. ‘I would like you to begin arrangements for Dr Hannibal Lecter to be eaten alive.’

Cordell doesn’t falter. Doesn’t even pause in his ministrations, but there’s an excitement to his stance; an eager tension to his shoulders.

‘Do you have a preference for how you would like him prepared?’ he asks, smirking up through his lashes when Mason hums a purr.

‘Oh, _Cordell…’_ Mason’s eyes sparkle. ‘If I had lips, I would _smile_.’

***

Six months after Dr Bloom’s initial meeting with Mason Verger and they are no closer to catching Dr Hannibal Lecter.

‘All this time he eludes us,’ Mason says, propped up in his wheelchair so he can meet the Alpha’s red-ringed eyes with his own. ‘Got away clean. It’s as though Hannibal Lecter has dropped off the earth.’

Alana paces as she thinks, wearing a pristine Prada suit, courtesy of her new, lavish salary. She still uses the walking cane, but the need gets less with every passing month.

‘Hannibal obviously has good papers,’ she says. ‘And money. Europe is where a man of his tastes would settle.’

‘His tastes are _very_ specific,’ Mason says, eyeing her up and down again. Without rising to the bait, Alana merely gives him a cold, sharp smile.

‘And _that’s_ how you’ll find him,’ she says, piquing Mason’s interest. She steps closer, looking down at him as she draws level with his wheelchair. ‘The wine. The truffles… Taste in all things will be a constant between Dr Lecter’s lives. His _name_ will change, but his taste will _not_.’

_His arrogance will be his downfall, wherever he is._

‘Of course…’ Mason shifts his head; the closest thing to a nod he can manage. ‘ _You_ know what he would favor… Tell me, Dr Bloom; does he favor _you?’_

Alana smirks.

‘I think I _amused_ him. Things either amuse him or they don’t…’ She looks him up and down in return. ‘And if they _don’t_ … Well, _you_ didn’t.’

Mason’s eyes glint at the insult.

‘Do you feel he ever genuinely cared for you?’ he asks, and Alana huffs as she turns away.

‘I have no _idea_ how Dr Lecter genuinely feels about me,’ she replies. ‘Last time we spoke, he promised he’d kill me.’

‘Huh…’ Mason uses the joystick to move the wheelchair closer to the net curtains overlooking the gardens. ‘How does it feel to use understanding as a predator’s tool?’

Alana quirks an eyebrow at him.

‘I’m using it as I’ve always used it,’ she says. ‘A psychiatric tool.’

Mason narrows his eyes and uses the stick to raise his chair up further.

‘Why not take this to Jack Crawford?’ he asks, and Alana rolls her eyes.

‘Jack’s done at the FBI. A footnote in his own Evil Minds Museum.’

‘I remain curious, Dr Bloom…’ Mason wheels closer, inch by inch. ‘How I have found you in _my_ pocket. Do tell. I’m all ears.’ He sucks in a breath, unable to laugh but wanting to. ‘They’ve just been… redistributed.’

Alana holds his gaze, bold and unflinching.

‘You’re preparing the theatre of Hannibal’s death,’ she replies. ‘I’m just doing my part to… get him to the stage.’

_And ensuring I have a front row seat for the final performance._

***

After three unanswered calls and two ignored voicemails, Jack drives out to Wolf Trap. He doesn’t want Will to do what he fears he’s going to do.

_It’s not worth it. Please, don’t go after him. It’s not worth your life._

His heart sinks when he parks up behind a snow-covered pickup. Will’s Volvo is nowhere to be seen, but the lights are on in the farmhouse. As he climbs out into the snow, he can hear dogs barking.

He climbs out of his SUV and climbs the side steps to the porch. Before he can reach the front door, it opens from inside and the dogs run out, barking and whining in excitement at another chance to play in the snow.

Bill Graham stands on the threshold, holding a sleeping Daniel in one arm.

‘Mr Graham,’ Jack says, tipping his hat to the Beta. ‘I’m sorry to intrude on you at this hour…’ He reads nothing from the Beta’s face; features so similar to Will’s and yet so closed off. ‘Is Will home?’ he tries, hoping for a gentle tone.

Bill’s greying eyebrows draw into a deeper scowl, furrowing his forehead with worry.

‘He’s already gone,’ he says, shoulders sagging with regret. ‘Figure he took the boat this mornin’… Had packed up an’ left before we’d even woke. Dogs never made a peep.’

‘I see…’ Jack sighs, watching his breath rise up in a cloud before being whisked away by the frigid breeze. ‘Did he say anything before he left? Was he… alright?’

Bill hugs Danny closer to him, tucking the comforter around him to protect little cheeks against the cold.

‘Will knows what he’s gotta do,’ he says, speaking softly into the head of curls. ‘He knows how to do right by these little ‘uns.’ Glancing up, he locks eyes with the Alpha. ‘Do you?’

_Will you protect my son? Will you do whatever it takes?_

Jack nods, slowly and carefully, binding himself in the promise of protection.

‘I do.’

Bill extends a hand to shake, and pulls Jack a step closer when they do.

‘Bring him home,’ he growls, eyes damp as he stares into Jack’s face. ‘Please. Don’t make me raise these pups without their papa.’

Jack covers Bill’s hand with his other one, strengthening the pact.

‘I’ll do everything I can,’ he says, his irises prickling as they flood crimson. ‘I promise.’

***

He feels like shit for leaving, but he has to. He can’t explain it; it’s this itch inside him. A buzzing, nagging need to find Hannibal. To be with him.

To _end_ things, one way or another.

‘I’ll come back for you,’ he whispers, staring down at the twins asleep in their cribs. They’re upstairs, with his Pops, but Will still sleeps in the camp bed near the lounge. He likes to keep an eye on the door; to guard them at night.

‘Your Granddaddy’s gonna take you to Louisiana,’ he murmurs, his chest aching at the idea of leaving his little ones behind.

He may never see them again.

‘Just for a little while…’ His breath hitches on a sob and he has to catch the tears before they fall. ‘I promise; I’ll come back if I can. As soon as I can.’

He drives out to the marina in the dark of night and is weighing anchor as dawn breaks. The engine is new, the sails are mended and the hull has been freshly painted.

Sailing is the best way to avoid border police, passports and checks and the inevitable FBI or Homeland Security questioning. Besides, this way he can cruise straight into a marina in Palermo, and make his first stop at the Norman Chapel; the foyer of his Alpha’s memory palace.

 _I’m coming for you, Hannibal_ , he thinks, tilting his face to the breeze and breathing deep the ocean smells. _And when I find you, you’re going to pay for what you’ve done_


	5. Contorno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Will and Chiyoh travel to Italy, Jack Crawford arrives in Florence. Alana helps Mason Verger confirm Hannibal’s location and Hannibal kills Inspector Pazzi.
> 
> Chiyoh acts to protect her Alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps! So this has felt like a right slog at times and then a real joy-fest at others. It's been a really tough few months, what with the c-word and everything making life crazy. We've been ill, we've had a bereavement and it's all been a bit bonkers!
> 
> However, there is FINALLY another update on this story, so I really hope you enjoy. I promise, no matter what, I'm continuing with all my fanfics, just really, REALLY slowly. Sorry. 
> 
> Stay safe, everyone, and look after each other. <3

FIVE

_Contorno_

‘On still evenings, when the air was damp after a rain, we played a game.’

Chiyoh’s voice, soft and careful, hangs in the cool twilight air between them and Will finds himself drawn to the golden ring around her brown irises, thick and gleaming in the gathering dark.

‘Hannibal would burn all kinds of barks and incense,’ the young Omega says, recalling her childhood with the enigmatic, dangerous Alpha. ‘For me to identify by scent alone.’

The cross-Europe train pulls them through fields of livestock, past windfarms and housing estates and factories. One of the few remaining steam trains to make such an epic journey, it consumes over thirty-thousand tons of coal each year and runs every day but Sunday. Will and Chiyoh sit in their own carriage, facing each other before a curtained window as night falls over the fields outside.

They left Minsk two days ago, and will arrive in Florence by tomorrow evening. Will has messaged his Pops, asking for a picture of the twins, but he won’t have enough cell signal now until they pull into the station for him to check for a reply. The thought makes his chest uncomfortably tight but there’s nothing he can do about it, so he forces himself to focus on the present.

‘He was charming,’ Chiyoh adds, her gaze distant as she stares from the window. ‘The way a cub is charming…’ A small, cold smile, eyes glinting. ‘A small cub that grows up to be like one of the big cats.’

Will mimics the smile, his own eyes flashing gold.

‘One you can’t play with later.’

Chiyoh nods and sits back, retreating into shadow.

‘The day I met Hannibal,’ she says, ‘he was an orphan. I was meant to meet him with his sister, but he was alone.’

Will frowns, curious.

‘How did you meet him?’ he asks, his chest tightening and pulse quickening at the thought of young Hannibal Lecter; damaged, vulnerable and alone, driven mad by the horrors of what a pack of rapid Alphas did to him and his sister.

_Why do I still care so much about him? After everything he’s done to me?_

‘I was his Aunt’s attendant,’ Chiyoh replies, distracting herself from the pain on Will’s face by fiddling with the velvet curtains at the train window. ‘It’s an old tradition in my culture, for Omegas of a certain station to learn from others. My parents sent me to learn from Lady Murasaki when I was just a girl.’ She lowers her gaze, something sharp and knowing in her tone when she adds, ‘I learned from Hannibal, too.’

‘He comes in the guise of a mentor,’ Will agrees, remembering his own introduction to the enigmatic, devious Alpha. ‘But it’s _distress_ that excites him.’

Chiyoh glares at him.

‘I’m not in distress,’ she growls, and Will smiles dryly.

‘Not anymore.’ At Chiyoh’s blush, her golden eyes lowered in submission, he adds softly, ‘You had a strict rule about taking life. And you broke it.’

_I made you break it. With barely a push._

He frowns, curious as to her emotional state. He imagines this is what Hannibal feels; mild amusement and a desire to know, to understand someone else even at their expense.

‘Is it on your mind?’ he asks, watching her carefully, waiting for the serene mask to slip. ‘Do you see yourself killing him, over and over?’

Chiyoh stares out of the window, the gold ring in her irises flaring and then fading to a dull copper.

‘No.’ She looks at him. ‘I see _you_.’ At Will’s smile – cold and cruel and _just_ like his Alpha’s – she tilts her own head. ‘How do you know Hannibal’s in Florence?’

Will pulls something from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He leans forward, holding it out for her to see.

‘Botticelli.’

It’s a postcard; a beautiful piece of Renaissance artwork on the front. The _Primavera_ , with dancing nymphs and a woman with flowers streaming from her mouth. Chiyoh looks down at it, admiring the brush strokes carefully replicated on card.

‘I’ve never been to Italy,’ she admits. She turns the card over and looks at the insignia on the back. _Galleria Degli Uffizi._ The Uffizi Gallery. Where the Primavera has hung for decades. ‘I never expected to.’

With a sigh, she turns her gaze back to the window. A flock of starlings swirling high over the telephone wires reminds her of an old fact; learned long ago.

‘Birds eat thousands of snails every day,’ she murmurs, thinking back to the Alpha in the cellar of the old Lecter estate. ‘Some of those snails survive digestion, and they emerge to find they’ve travelled the world.’

‘In the belly of the beast,’ Will says, smiling sadly at her.

 _Will we survive digestion?_ _Or are we already ghosts?_

***

Lips meet. Press. Part. Hands rove, squeezing muscles and tracing silver scars. Nails scratch lightly over stiffening nipples and teeth graze tender buds before tongues rasp and suckle.

Will straddles Hannibal’s lap, the burgundy covers of their bed pooled around them as they move. The ceiling overhead is painted in a fresco of cherubs and devils, each creature blending into the other; an eternal battle between Heaven and Hell.

‘Is this real?’ Hannibal whispers, holding Will close as they kiss again. He slides his fingers through his mate’s thick curls, holding him steady as he plunders the eager, willing mouth, trying to drink down every drop of Will’s spit. Anything to fill the emptiness inside him. ‘Are you here with me?’

‘I’m coming,’ Will breathes, trailing damp affections along Hannibal’s stubbled cheek, kissing away the tears falling from his Alpha’s eyes. ‘We’re dreaming, but we’re together.’

‘I thought I’d killed you,’ Hannibal says, his heart aching even as arousal licks down his spine to pool at urgent heat in his groin. ‘That night –’

‘Sssh.’ Will kisses him silent, stroking back silky blond hair and cupping each side of his mate’s face. ‘You never intended to kill me.’

‘I wanted to hurt you,’ Hannibal replies, and Will leans back so they can both see the smile across his abdomen. ‘More than you hurt me.’

‘You can’t cope with these emotions,’ Will says, rolling his hips and moaning softly at the feel of an erection against his own. ‘You never cared about anyone since Mischa.’

‘I’d do anything for you, Will.’ Hannibal gazes into his eyes as he speaks. He presses closer, their chests flush together, lips brushing and arms tight around each other’s shoulders. ‘ _Anything_ to make you strong.’

‘You have a twisted way of showing affection,’ Will whispers, and he bites deep into Hannibal’s throat. The force of his attack knocks Hannibal onto his back, the mattress sinking under the change in weight. Will locks his jaw, his teeth piercing the skin and filling his mouth with blood. As he sucks a bruise of ownership over the Alpha’s thundering pulse, he reaches down between them and takes hold of Hannibal’s hardness. He can smell his own slick; sweet and smoky, like a summer wildfire, and he doesn’t hesitate as he guides the erection behind his own, rocking down onto the length as Hannibal thrusts up.

They join in one smooth, sharp motion. Will shudders, aching at the sudden stretch, and bites down harder at the invasion. Hannibal whimpers beneath him, arching his spine and tipping his head back to bare more of his throat. Will barely allows a moment to pass before he starts to move, riding Hannibal to spark a pleasure that he’s missed for far too long.

 _We belong together. No matter what_.

They move in perfect synchronicity, connected by teeth and flesh as much as by their minds. The room in their Memory Palace shimmers around them; white drapes darkening to maroon, the window overlooking Wolf Trap but the furniture similar to that of the townhouse.

_This is our place. Not yours. Not mine. Ours._

Wrenching back from the ring of bloody, bruised teeth-marks, Will bares his fangs at Hannibal and lets some of the red drip from his lips. The moment it lands on the other man’s mouth, his eyes blaze crimson and a guttural snarl erupts from his throat.

Hannibal surges upright. He twists, pinning Will on his back beneath him. Will whines, urging him on, and wraps his legs tight around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. Deeper.

‘Mine,’ Hannibal growls, rutting into him until Will’s eyes are wet. Until his brow is damp with sweat and his breathing is erratic, catching on groans and whimpers of pleasure. ‘Say it!’

‘Yours,’ Will promises, his voice cracking as a climax crashes through him. He convulses, every muscle tightening, clenching down around the knot swelling inside him as Hannibal thrusts two, three more times and then follows with a powerful orgasm of his own.

 _This,_ he thinks, floating on bliss, riding the high with every judder and spark wrung from his singing nerves, feeling so utterly connected to Hannibal that there is no boundary between them. _This is where I belong. With my Alpha. My mate._

‘This is only a dream,’ Hannibal murmurs, hugging him close as the last of the shockwaves fade, leaving them spent and sated. ‘We’re not really here.’

‘I will be,’ Will says, nuzzling the bitemark and then scenting Hannibal with a purr. ‘A day. Two at most. We’ll be together, again.’

They drift in nothingness for a while, content to lie together, their bodies sealed with a knot, hands gentle now in their roaming, lips meeting in placid kisses. After a while, after their hearts have slowed and the sweat has dried from their bodies, they part and rise from the warm bed.

‘Hungry?’ Hannibal asks, smiling at the twinge of pain in his neck when he turns his head. Will smiles at him, blue eyes flashing gold at the danger in those words.

‘Always.’

He pulls on a pair of pyjama pants and wraps a silk robe around him. Hannibal covers himself with sweatpants and goes to prepare a snack. The dream has shifted again, interspersing imagination with reality. Will can see only darkness beyond the window of the Florentine apartment; there should be the piazza but there is a sense of open fields and stars moving past at a great pace – the same view as from the train.

Hannibal moves behind him, adding the finishing touches to a silver platter of escargot. Will can smell the unique, tangy scent of cooked snails mingled with garlic and lemon, and his mouth waters.

‘Your childhood home is beautiful,’ he murmurs, thinking back to the invertebrates covering the angel statue and courtyard of the Lecter estate. ‘I had Chiyoh kill the Alpha, and then I turned him into an effigy.’

‘What did you make?’ Hannibal asks, his voice carrying the same note of genuine curiosity that he reserves only for Will.

‘An _imago_ ,’ Will admits, hand absently rubbing the line of his caesarean scar where his robe has parted. ‘A firefly.’

‘I kept cochlear gardens as a young man to attract fireflies,’ Hannibal replies, pouring them each a glass of Cognac to accompany the escargot. ‘Their larvae would devour many times their own body weight in snails. Fuel,’ he adds, approaching Will from behind and setting the platter down on the table between them. ‘To power transformation into a delicate creature of such beauty.’

 _Flirt,_ Will thinks, leaning in with a knowing smile to accept a mouthful of skewered, grilled snail. Hannibal purrs, just once, long and low, as Will chews the morsel, and they share the same thought.

_I’m devouring snails, just as I devoured your teaching to transform into the creature you wanted me to be. The killer you craved._

He takes a crystal tumbler and holds it up in a toast.

‘To the misfortune of the snail.’

‘Snails follow their nature as surely as those that eat them,’ Hannibal says, sipping his own brandy to mix the flavors on his tongue. He comes to stand close behind his Omega, trailing his fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. Will dips his head forward, baring the scarred nape of his neck, a low purr escaping his throat.

‘Fireflies live very brief lives,’ he whispers, his vision shimmering with tears as love and fear constrict his heart in a vice.

_If I finish my transformation, I’ll die._

Hannibal hums, considering it, but then says,

‘Better to live true to yourself for an instant than never know it.’

Will leans back against Hannibal’s chest, allowing the other man to support his weight. Hannibal presses his fingers to the smooth side of Will’s neck, checking his pulse, and Will wonders how dark the bruise on his throat has become.

‘Not like I do,’ he says, glancing back up at the other man. ‘According to you, I’ve been fighting my true self all my life.’

‘An insect lacks morality to agonize over,’ Hannibal says, shrugging around another sip of Cognac. ‘You agonize about inevitable change.’

Will hums.

‘Almost anything can be trained to resist its instinct,’ he murmurs, reminding Hannibal of his iron-clad self-control. ‘A shepherd dog doesn’t savage the sheep.’

Hannibal chuckles, and leans down to scent Will’s hair with a smile. He lowers his arm from stroking his throat and hugs him across the waist, instead, trailing kisses across his cheek.

‘But it wants to,’ he whispers, lips brushing the shell of his ear. A soft sigh makes them both shiver and Will feels his nerves draw tight as his Alpha continues, ‘You have reached a state of moral dumbfounding. Empathy and reciprocity.’

_Love and hate. Understanding and a thirst for righteous justice._

‘Reciprocity…’ Will hums thoughtfully. ‘If we keep track of incoming and outgoing intentions, then _I_ am en-route to kill _you_ … while _you_ lie in wait to kill _me_.’ He takes a sip of his drink. ‘Now _that’s_ reciprocity.’

_That’s the only path our relationship can take._

***

The city of Florence is just as beautiful as when he first saw it, but, as Jack looks out across the river, he realizes how hollow it now feels. How empty.

The world will never be the same, now that his Bella is gone.

He carries her urn across the _Ponte Santa Trinita_ ; the same bridge on which they first met, all those years ago. Other Florentines and tourists walk around him; sightseeing or on their way to early morning jobs. The sun is sill low in sky; the salty smell of dawn still lingering in the sleep-heavy air.

Jack lowers his head and places a reverent kiss on the lid of the urn, scenting the engraved wood and, very faintly, the remains of his Omegan mate inside.

‘Ciao, Bella,’ he murmurs, tears pricking his eyes as he unscrews the cap and prepares to let her go from this life.

He remembers the first time he saw her. He’d been a bullheaded, macho Alpha, strutting along the riverbank with his companions after lunch in a nearby bistro. The midday sun had been beating down on them, heating the paving to blister his soles, but an ice-cold beer in his hands made the world a truly pleasurable place to be, and the air was rich with the smells of other Alphas and Omegas, coffee and sweet pastries.

_‘Bella! Bella!’_

A pack of young Naval officers were wolf-whistling at an Omega standing on the bridge. Jack remembers looking over, blinking against the light, and seeing the most beautiful woman in his life. Curling hair knotted at the nape of her neck, dressed in the pale blue Omegan uniform of the Royal Marines – during the more liberal time when Omegas were permitted to serve as intelligence staff in the Armed Forces – with perfect skin and stunning gold eyes.

The Italian Alphas in her unit were flirting with her; harmless banter that made her smile and twirl for them. To Jack, it was a display of her strength that she was not intimidated by them. This was a woman who could hold her own; who could, no doubt, beat an Alpha down if they tried anything untoward.

He fell in lust with her that day, and, after one hour in her company, love was quick to follow.

A tear rolls down his cheek at the memory. Jack holds the lid of the urn close to his chest, his heart ripping in two, and tips Bella’s ashes out over the edge of the bridge. The breeze catches them, lifting them in a swirl before scattering them across the glistening surface of the River Arno.

_My beautiful one. My mate. My everything._

His ring is next. The metal slips from his finger, too easy for his liking. A reminder of the weight he’s lost, following the attack and mourning Bella’s passing. A reminder of the _life_ he’s lost.

He feels the weight of it in his palm. Tosses and catches it, two, three times. Then, with a burst of strength, fueled by rage at the universe stealing his beloved Bella, he hurls it into the river.

The ring hits the surface of the water with a splash, twisting and turning as it sinks. It takes with it the last of Jack’s hope, the last of his love and the last of his honor.

He will do whatever it takes, now, to kill Hannibal Lecter. And, if it kills him, so be it.

***

Inspector Pazzi meets him at the _Questura di Firenze_ later that day. Jack is pleasantly surprised by how well he is treated by his colleagues, though Rinaldo later tells him that he is held in low regard because of his Omegan status and failure to correctly apprehend _Il Mostro_ in his youth.

‘It is true,’ he says, guiding the Alpha to a window table in a small café bar near the office; ‘Omegan rights are better here than in your America.’ He grimaces, his eyes flashing gold. ‘That does not mean all is well, however. To many of my colleagues I am an oddity; a token Omegan officer to keep the Federation satisfied.’

‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ Jack says, sipping espresso. ‘I hope the world changes for the better, soon.’

‘I count myself fortunate,’ Rinaldo replies, raising his cup in a toast. ‘Your Will Graham, for example, could well have been sentenced to prison for his role within the FBI. At least I have a job, and a beautiful mate who allows me to thrive.’

‘To Omegan Liberation,’ Jack says, and they clink their cups together in salute.

After their coffees are finished, and Rinaldo has enjoyed a cigarette outside in the evening sun, they travel to a well-kept house in the outskirts of town. Rinaldo’s mate greets them at the door, her eyes flashing protective red before calming to brown. She gives Jack Crawford a hug, inviting him into her home and her pack, and scents Rinaldo before allowing him to leave her side.

They share the task of hosting – Rinaldo prepares dessert whilst Allegra cooks, and he opens wine for them all to share.

‘ _Grazie_ ,’ Jack says, humming his pleasure at the smell of the Chianti. Allegra clinks her glass against his, then against Rinaldo’s, who beams with joy at serving two Alphas so well.

Allegra smiles at him, keen to know more about the former Head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit her mate talks about so much.

‘You’ve recently stopped wearing your wedding ring,’ she says, nodding to the pale band of skin on his finger. Jack grimaces at being caught out and nods to her own; bright and untarnished with age.

‘Yes, and you’ve recently _started_ wearing yours,’ he replies, receiving a coy smile from the other Alpha.

‘I have an eternally young and lovely wife,’ Rinaldo purrs, dipping his head to kiss her when Allegra cups the back of his neck and brings him down for affection. Jack respectfully lowers his gaze, allowing them a moment of privacy, and Allegra revels in it before turning back to her guest.

‘Not so young,’ she confesses. ‘My family has many Alphas and we all age well. Rinaldo and I have been mated for many years, but only recently did we marry before the eyes of God.’ She nods again to his ring. ‘Separated?’

‘No,’ Jack replies, a moment of sadness like a knife in the heart. ‘Widowed. I met her here…’ He swallows, his throat tight. ‘It’s a little strange to be in Italy without her. We came here almost every year for our anniversary.’

‘ _Mi dispiace_ ,’ Allegra says, mortified to have upset or offended him. ‘The loss of a mate is a terrible tragedy.’ She places a comforting hand on his arm and squeezes. ‘Tell me; what was her name?’

‘Bella.’ Jack smiles, and Allegra raises her glass in a toast.

‘To Bella,’ she says, and they salute the passed Omega with a moment of silence and a solemn sip of wine. Allegra gives Jack’s arm another touch, kisses Rinaldo’s cheek and returns to the kitchen to dish up.

Rinaldo stares after her, his cheeks warm and scent syrupy thick with love.

‘I look at her,’ he murmurs, ‘and I think about all the things I want to do for her… All the things I want to give her.’

‘How you wish to appear in her eyes,’ Jack says, pulling out a chair and sitting at the table. ‘Are you planning on having children?’

‘Certainly not in my present role at the _Questura_ ,’ Rinaldo replies, taking the chair at the head of the table, where he can sit between his Alpha and his guest. ‘I perform menial errands found for me by my former subordinates. Tasks “befitting my caste”.’ They share a knowing look and Rinaldo sniffs in disgust. ‘Writing up interviews from missing person cases…’ His eyes flash gold. ‘They’ve enjoyed my fall from grace.’

Pouring them each more wine to wash away the bitter taste of regret, Jack gives voice to his realization.

‘You weren’t in Palermo on official business.’

Rinaldo grins, unashamed to be caught out. He gestures to the other man with his glass.

‘Neither were you.’

Jack shrugs, taking a sip of wine as he considers his response. In the end, honesty is the best policy, though he does lower his voice so as not to let it carry back to the kitchen where Allegra might worry.

‘And your subordinates at the _Questura_ … do they know you’re investigating Hannibal Lecter?’

Rinaldo glances down at the plate waiting to be filled with his mate’s delicious food, his stomach rumbling at the smell of garlic and balsamic vinegar on the antipasti and insalata already on the table.

‘I’ll tell them when I _know_ it’s Lecter that I’m investigating,’ he says, to which Jack chuckles and uses his fork to spear a chunk of mozzarella from the platter.

‘You already know,’ the Alpha says, placing the cheese on his plate, ready to accompany the main dish.

Rinaldo shakes his head with a sigh.

‘I need to be _certain_.’ He leans closer. ‘I am an Omega; disgraced and out of fortune…’

_I cannot afford to be wrong again._

Jack nods, showing his understanding, though there’s a warning tone to his voice when he replies,

‘It has _inclined_ you towards a game that’s _outside_ of the law.’ He narrows his eyes and returns to the wine. ‘I know. I know that look. I played that game and I lost.’

_Don’t make my mistake._

‘Let’s eat!’ Allegra announces, returning to the room carrying a wide, deep dish full of pasta. Jack sits back with a rumbling purr, welcoming her to set the bowl down between himself and Rinaldo.

‘Oh my goodness,’ he says, gazing at the glistening strips of pasta nestled around chunks of hare meat in ragù. ‘How _beautiful_.’

‘Pasta?’ Allegra says, accepting the compliment with a smile and a nod of the head. When Jack hums his confirmation, she gives him a generous portion.

‘This,’ Rinaldo says, taking the opportunity to teach Jack some more Italian, ‘ _pappardelle alla lepre_. Can you say it?’

Jack chuckles and attempts the same bouncy pronunciation.

‘ _Pappa-dell-ay alla lepre.’_

‘No, no.’ Rinaldo smiles and shakes his head, making Allegra laugh. ‘It’s not “papa-dell-ay”, it’s “papar-dellay”.’

 _‘Papardelle_ ,’ Jack repeats, getting the enunciation correct this time. Rinaldo grins and nods, praising him, and then gestures to the sauce.

‘That’s it. With _lepre_.’

‘Thank you,’ Jack says, and twists a spoonful of pasta around his fork. ‘What is _lepre?’_

‘Hare,’ Allegra replies, now serving Rinaldo before taking the bowl to her setting and scooping out a portion. ‘It’s my grandmother’s recipe.’

‘It’s delicious,’ Jack says, and, for a moment, he’s reminded of old dinners in Baltimore; Hannibal across from him, Will beside him, a plateful of exquisite food waiting to be savored and a killer to hunt.

 _But that was all a lie. And this…_ He smiles at the easy flirting and casual touches between Rinaldo and his Alpha. _This is what real love looks like._

***

Four and a half thousand miles away, in Maryland, Dr Alana Bloom smiles down at an extravagant assortment of fine bone-china, silver tableware and fresh flowers.

‘A table setting,’ she says, ‘from the home of Dr Hannibal Lecter.’

Across from her, strapped into his electronic wheelchair, Mason Verger’s eyes gleam. Alana purrs, just once, and dips a red-nailed hand to pick up a piece of carefully-sourced cutlery.

‘The silverware is 19th-century Dutch,’ she continues. ‘From Christofle. The plate is Glen French china from Tiffany. The table _linen_ …’ She strokes the cloth as she speaks. ‘Is damask cotton. Also from Christofle.’

 _Fag_ , Mason thinks, sneering at the embroidered material. Aloud, however, he drawls,

‘Well, you’ve gotta hand it to the man; he has the most _marvelous_ taste.’

He makes a mental note to order new silverware from Christofle, and a new dinner service set from Tiffany.

‘I’ve discovered a pattern of purchases,’ Alana explains. ‘An echo of the life he lived in Baltimore.’

‘He likes music,’ Mason says, detesting the respect and admiration he has for the man who mutilated him. ‘He likes wine, he likes food… And he used to like _you_.’ He leers at her, his tongue flicking out to wet his lipless mouth. ‘How do _you_ taste, Dr Bloom? Sweet, I bet. I’m sure you got a taste of _him_ , too?’ He chuckles. ‘Spitters are quitters, and you don’t strike me as a quitter.’

Alana ignores the crude barb and merely picks up a tissue-wrapped package, continuing with her lesson.

‘The first step in the development of taste is to be willing to credit your own opinion.’ The package opens like a flower to the sun, revealing a single ripe fig. ‘But in the areas of food and wine, I have to follow Hannibal’s precedents.’

She remembers him slicing the same type of fig in his Baltimore kitchen; savoring each slice, licking juice from his fingers between strokes of the blade… Watching her watch him, smelling her arousal and basking in the attention.

Next, Alana picks up a piece of printed parchment paper.

‘A receipt,’ she says, ‘from a Florentine fine grocer; _Vera Dal 1926_ , for two bottles of Bâtard-Montrachet and some _tartufi bianchi.’_

She lifts the white truffle to her nose, scenting it the way she’s seen Hannibal do a thousand times. As an Alpha, her senses are heightened; more attuned to subtle variations in flavors, and she revels in the complexity of the rare mushroom.

She tosses receipt after receipt onto the table, smirking with red-painted lips at her employer.

‘And another. And another, and another. Once a week, for the last few months, a blonde woman has been making the _exact same purchase_. And she _always_ pays cash.’ Alana’s irises flare crimson; a low shiver runs through her and she distantly realizes it is the thrill of a hunt. ‘She’s shopping for Hannibal.’

Mason, having sat fairly quietly for the last part, contorts his face into a passing resemblance of a smile. The true delight, however, lies in the mad glint in his Beta-blue eyes, and a thin sheen of sweat glistens across his scarred forehead.

‘ _Bravo_.’

They’ve found him. Now, to bait the hook.

***

The train trundles on, mile after mile, hour after hour, until night has fallen all around and enclosed them in shadows.

Will and Chiyoh keep to themselves in the dining carriage, staying only long enough to eat a main course before retiring to their sleeping quarters.

The beds are soft and wide, with plush covers and feather pillows. Will watches as Chiyoh prays, fascinated by the precise, delicate way in which the younger Omega moves, folder her lithe limbs to become no larger than a child, bowing her dark head over a temporary shrine created for the _kami_ in the countryside around her.

What she prays for, silent but for the ringing of a small bell, is a mystery to Will, and he is left alone as she goes to the bathroom to change into sleeping robes.

The air is charged, thick with tension when she returns. Her small body is wrapped in delicate blue silk, nipples erect in the cold air, and Will feels the first stirrings of arousal. He hadn’t expected to dream of Hannibal earlier; dozing off with his head resting against the padded wall of the carriage, slipping into his Alpha’s thoughts and making love to him in the Florentine apartment…

He’d woken with a start, half-hard and blushing at the knowing smile on his companion’s face. Now, lying on the top bunk, flat on his back with the covers up to his chest, Will can’t help but feel an ache building.

 _I’ll be with you soon, Alpha_.

Chiyoh, perhaps sensing his thoughts, probably smelling his desire, sighs and sits on the edge of her bed. She waits for a moment, as if steeling herself, and then lies back to stare up at the springs of Will’s mattress above her.

‘Are we obligated to talk?’ she asks, sounding tired. No doubt, after decades of isolation, speaking for so many hours must be exhausting.

‘No,’ Will assures her, and Chiyoh hums.

‘It’s strange to talk so much,’ she says, confirming his suspicions. ‘Not used to hearing voices outside my head.’

‘I hear voices from all directions,’ Will replies, thinking bitterly of his empathy disorder; his inability to switch off from the thoughts and feelings of everyone else. Then, giving voice to a thought gestating since lunch, he asks, ‘In the gnawing sameness of your days, did you look at the _shape_ of things? At… what you were becoming?’

_A jailor. A torturer. A monster._

‘I wasn’t becoming anything,’ Chiyoh says dully. ‘I was… standing still. Exactly where he left me standing. Like taxidermy.’

‘Hollowed out,’ Will murmurs, fingers sliding over his own chest as he speaks, remember the same feeling after Hannibal was through with him. ‘And filled with… something else.’

_Filled with darkness. With decay. With him._

‘Not something else,’ Chiyoh says. ‘I’m not as malleable as you are.’

_Hannibal could never make any of his desires stick with me. They never took root as they have so easily with you._

‘I was violent,’ the other Omega continues, ‘when it was the right thing to do. But…’ She pauses, weighing her words, and then takes the plunge. ‘I think you like it.’

Will rolls his head, considering her accusation.

‘Hannibal and I,’ he says, ‘afforded each other an experience we may not otherwise have had.’

_Love. A bond deeper than crests and claiming scars._

Chiyoh is quiet for a long while and then, just when Will thinks she might have fallen asleep, she says,

‘If you don’t kill him… you are afraid you’re going to _become_ him.’

The words sting. They itch where they sit on his skin, burrowing deep like ants. Will’s heart skips a beat and he holds on tight to the cell phone clutched in his right hand, hidden beneath the covers. There’s a new photo of the twins on it; sent from his Pops yesterday. They’re the best part of him. The best part of Hannibal.

He has to keep them safe. From their father. From _himself_.

‘Yes,’ he whispers, tears pricking his eyes.

_If it’s not already too late._

Chiyoh nods to herself, knowing that Will will hear the rustle of her hair against the pillow.

‘There _are_ means of influence _other_ than violence,’ she reminds him, and the surety of Will’s mission, the single-mindedness of his quest, falters.

_Could he stop…? Could I influence him to stop… without hurting him? Without killing him?_

The shadow inside him writhes, coiling like a viper in its nest as it tastes the air for weakness. It _wants_ Will to spare Hannibal’s life; it wants to rejoin him and dance in the darkness on a bridge of bones.

But the shadow is only a part of him, and Will sighs, returning his gaze to the ceiling above him.

He can’t trust Hannibal. He’s a killer, a psychopath, and he has to be stopped.

There’s no other way.

***

The Medieval Antiquities Wing of Florence’s _Palazzo Capponi_ has a central room, carved from stone and supported by sculpted marble pillars. The vaulted ceiling is painted with frescoes and dripping with chandeliers, under which glint perfectly polished glass display cases of the vilest forms of human behavior.

Museum porters bring in large wooden crates of antiquities, unstrapping statues and implements from their trolleys for the new curator to place them as he wishes.

Moving between them, Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi hears the odd Alpha scent the air, feeling their eyes on him with a disapproving curiosity as he shows them his _Questura di Firenze_ badge. When he murmurs _Missing Persons_ , however, they seem to relax, and give him easy directions to the man he is seeking at the other end of the room.

Dr Fell is bent over a sculpture fragment, a tiny brush in his hand, cloth gloves on his hands and a bright magnifying light before his face. Rinaldo draws as close as he dares, squashing down his instincts to slip away before he can be noticed.

‘Dr Fell?’ he asks, working hard to keep his voice steady as the Alpha’s scent caresses his nose, speaking of strength and vitality.

‘Yes?’ the curator replies, without turning from his work. Rinaldo decides to take it as a sign of passion for his work, rather than a snub, but it could easily be either.

Nonetheless, he pulls out his badge once again.

‘I am Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi, from the _Questura di Firenze_ ,’ he explains, offering the credentials but letting his arm drop when Dr Fell makes no move to turn to check them. At the lingering silence, he continues, ‘I was wondering if you ever met your predecessor?’

‘Never met him,’ Dr Fell says, finally setting the brush down and turning to give the Inspector his full attention. ‘Read several of his monographs.’

_It’s him._

The moment “Dr Fell” turns to speak to him, Rinaldo’s blood runs cold. He feels his eyes prickle as they flash gold and he swallows back a whimper.

The Alpha facing him is not Dr Roman Fell, French professor specializing in Medieval Italian, but Dr Hannibal Lecter.

_Il Monstro._

Hannibal is older, yes, but the face is unforgettable. Sharp cheekbones, thin, cruel lips and calculating eyes beneath fine ashen hair. And the scent… hot, like fire, mingled with morning dew and blood.

_He smells like a hunter. Like a predator._

‘The officers who first investigated checked the _Palazzo_ for any sort of note,’ he says, drawing closer, step by step, as his quarry returns to the marble bust. ‘Farewell note… Suicide note… Found nothing.’

‘The going assumption is that he eloped with an Omega,’ Hannibal replies, choosing another brush from his kit before winking at Inspector Pazzi. ‘ _And_ their money.’

Rinaldo forced out a dry chuckle. It was a lie; Hannibal killed the former Curator, he knows it in his bones. The moment of truth; sweet as nectar, hot with certainty. It is a guiding beacon and he will stop at nothing to follow the trail.

‘What is the going assumption regarding Professor Sogliato?’ he asks, reminding Hannibal of his second overt removal of a _Palazzo_ colleague.

“Dr Fell” adopts a look of concern.

‘Still no word?’ He shakes his head with a sigh, and Rinaldo gulps back a growl.

‘ _You_ may have had the last word with Sogliato,’ he says. ‘Your colleague… er…’ He checks his notebook, feigning forgetfulness despite knowing the name by heart; ‘Senior Albizzi… He tells me no-one has spoken to Professor Sogliato since he declined your invitation to dinner.’ He raises his eyebrows at the Alpha. ‘He’s the _second_ one to have disappeared from the _Palazzo_.’

Hannibal doesn’t flinch, but his eyes become flat and dark, like a hunting shark.

‘Like any good investigator,’ he says, ‘I’m sure you’re sifting the circumstances for profit.’

Rinaldo’s eyes gleam, a rich, honeyed gold, and a low purr rattles his throat.

‘Both were bachelors… Well-respected scholars with orderly lives… They had some savings; nothing much.’

_Their disappearances don’t make sense, and that creates suspicion. You are new, and have profited from their disappearances. That makes you suspicious._

He smiles, leaving the insinuation hanging in the air between them, and turns to leave. He’s said his piece; anything else would be supposition, and would cripple the investigation. But he can leave Hannibal Lecter to sweat a little, knowing that he knows. That’s he’s onto him.

As he walks away, however, Hannibal speaks again, calling him back.

‘ _Commendator_ Pazzi?’

Rinaldo pauses, keeping his back to the Alpha so as not to betray the flash of fear in his eyes.

‘Yes?’

Hannibal smirks, his heightened senses catching a salty tang of fear from the sweet Omegan Inspector. Oh, he knows that scent well; Rinaldo Pazzi was the young Detective who discovered his artwork in Florence during his first stay here –termed _Il Mostro di Firenze_ by the uneducated masses.

Such a fall from grace, and now, an opportunity for reprieve. For glory, once again…

‘I believe you are a Pazzi of _the_ Pazzi, am I correct?’ he asks, baiting his line. Without hesitation, Rinaldo turns, hooked.

‘How do you know that?’ he asks, frowning sharply. Hannibal lifts one shoulder in a shrug, projecting an air of coy teasing.

‘An Omega’s beauty is hard to forget,’ he says. ‘You resemble a figure at the _Della Robbia rondels_ , in your family’s chapel at _Santa Croce_.’

‘Yeah…’ Rinaldo huffs a laugh, blushing at the compliment. ‘I’ve been told that.’ He grimaces. ‘That was Andrea de’ Pazzi, depicted as John the Baptist.’

‘ _Then,_ ’ Hannibal says, drawing closer now that he’s lured him in; ‘there’s the _most_ famous Pazzi of all. Francesco.’ He fiddles with his cloth gloves, ostensibly smoothing out creases but also loosening the scalpel blade tucked there, just in case. ‘The Omega who attempted to assassinate Lorenzo the Magnificent in the cathedral at Mass, in 1478.’

‘Yeah.’ Rinaldo shrugs, but his jaw is tight and his eyes are bright with anger at the remembered insult. ‘The Pazzi family were all brought low on that Sunday.’ Feeling brave, perhaps because of the adrenaline still coursing through him, he walks closer until there is barely an arm’s width between them, staring into the smug, arrogant face of the Alpha who thinks he’s above the law. Who think he’s beyond reproach. ‘If you come upon anything, _Dr Fell_ , anything _personal_ from the missing men, will you call me?’

‘Of course, _Commendatore_ ,’ Hannibal lies, watching closely as Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi, the bloodhound of Florence, strides away to follow his trail elsewhere.

When the older Omega pauses in the doorway to pluck a pamphlet for Friday’s new exhibit, glancing back with a knowing smile, Hannibal’s belly tightens.

Time to kill the good Pazzi.

***

A hunch is good, but evidence gets a conviction. The moment Rinaldo leaves the _Palazzo Capponi_ , he returns to his office at the _Questura_. There, after impatiently waiting for the Internal Investigations database to load, he searches the name of the man who still haunts his nightmares.

 _Hannibal Lecter_.

The page loads in moments.

“Voluto: Per Omicidio.” _Wanted for murder. If you have any information regarding Dr Lecter, call the local police on: 0041-315-5032_

It’s him. The image is blurry, distorted by pixels, but sharp enough that it is a dagger of ice and a flame of curiosity all at once.

Rinaldo isn’t as stupid as his colleagues believe him to be. He’s heard the rumors of a reward; a million dollars, paid in cash to whoever delivers the bounty to Mr Mason Verger of Maryland, USA.

With a million dollars, Rinaldo could retire. He could buy a house on the coast and move there with Allegra. Perhaps think about having children, once the pressures of the job are behind him.

_He won’t escape justice twice._

He makes the call from a payphone in a plaza three miles away. A euro in, a dial tone and then the numbers.

The line clicks and there is silence for a moment before a crisp, cool male voice speaks in English.

‘State your business, please.’

 _It’s now or never_.

Rinaldo closes his eyes, weighing up the risks of what he’s about to do. It could all go wrong… He could lose not only his job but his life… His freedom…

But the reward is an eyewatering sum of money, and Allegra has been talking about moving to Sicily for such a long time…

‘I may have information about Hannibal Lecter,’ he says, choosing his words carefully so as not to commit himself to something he cannot fulfil.

‘Do you know where he is _now?’_ the voice asks, and Rinaldo hums.

‘I believe so.’ Hs gut churns. ‘Is the reward in effect?’

‘Why haven’t you called the police?’ the voice replies. ‘I’m required to encourage you to do so.’

Ignoring the unenthusiastic question, Rinaldo asks,

‘Is the reward payable in… “special circumstances”? To someone not… _ordinarily_ eligible?’

After all, law enforcement officers are exempt from typical bounties; a method of ensuring fairness and incorruptibility within the police force.

These, are, however, desperate times.

‘Do you mean a _bounty_ on Dr Lecter?’ The voice manages to sound surprised, and Rinaldo clenches his teeth at being forced to show his hand.

‘Yes.’

‘It is against international convention to offer a _bounty_ for someone’s _death_ , sir.’ The voice continues before Rinaldo can speak, and there’s a definite note of excitement, now. ‘Are you calling from Europe?’

‘Yes. I am. That’s _all_ I’m telling you.’

‘I suggest you contact an attorney to discuss the legality of bounties,’ the voice says, and Rinaldo knows he’s in. ‘May I recommend one? There is one in Geneva. I encourage you, strongly, to call him and be frank about the matter. Would you like the number, sir?’

Rinaldo sighs, but only a little. He hadn’t really expected it to be as simple as phoning up and talking to Mason Verger – the tip-line must have had thousands of prank calls or crazies phoning up insisting they knew the location of the infamous Dr Hannibal Lecter.

At his extended hesitation, the voice prompts him again, perhaps panicking that their first good lead might bolt.

‘ _Sir?!’_

‘Yes,’ Rinaldo says, pulling a pen from his pocket. ‘Give me the number.’

As he writes it down, he tries not to feel like he’s signing away his life. His soul. Sealing a deal with the devil…

After all, he can always change his mind. He can speak to the lawyer in Geneva and present Mason Verger with proof of Hannibal Lecter’s whereabouts, or he can walk away… He still has a choice.

Hanging up the phone and walking back to the _Questura_ , he can’t help but think of his ancestor, and the fate that befell him.

History won’t repeat itself. It can’t. And betraying Hannibal to Mason Verger isn’t the same as Francesco attempting to assassinate the corrupt Lorenzo…

Everything will be fine.

***

Hannibal can’t sleep. Memories of his first encounter with Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi, a Pazzi of _the_ Pazzi, an Omega with the same extraordinary gift as his Will, haunt him. To help him think, he plays Mozart, _Piano Sonata No. 13 in B Flat_ , the notes ringing out to hang in the still, warm Italian air.

He hears movement behind him and imagines it is Will, drawn from slumber to check on him.

‘I prefer the sound and feel of the harpsichord,’ he says, glancing up from the sheet music as the Omega comes to lean on the top of the baby grand, wearing a thin cotton t-shirt and boxers, his brown curls mussed from bed. ‘More alive; the music arrives like experience. Sudden and entire.’ Another glance up, watching as blue eyes meet his with steady certainty, perhaps already sensing the reason for the insomnia. ‘The piano has the quality of a memory.’

He ends the piece with a flourish, striking the chords and leaving them ringing in the silence that follows. Placing each hand on the ends of the ebony and ivory keyboard, he sighs up at his mate.

‘Today has the quality of a memory.’

‘You’ve met Inspector Pazzi before,’ Will says, and Hannibal nods.

‘In my youth.’ At the other man’s questioning head tilt, he explains, ‘We shared a fondness for Botticelli, and crossed paths in the Uffizi Gallery beneath “La Primavera”.’

‘Were you… intimate?’ Will asks, and Hannibal smiles at the bite of jealousy in his Omega’s voice.

‘Not as intimate as you and I,’ he promises. ‘Though the good Inspector does share the same mirrors as you have in your mind.’

Will frowns.

‘Does he… _know_ … what you are?’ he asks, and Hannibal smiles.

‘When I looked into his face,’ he says, ‘and stood close enough to smell him, I was well aware that all the elements of epiphany were present.’

‘And yet,’ Will says, pushing away from the piano, ‘here you are. Free to tell me all about it.’

Hannibal’s eyes flicker red, his lips curving into a knowing, predatory smile.

‘He must wait, and lurk, and think,’ he says. ‘It’s too soon to flush his quarry. He’s deciding what to do.’

Will frowns, his blue eyes stormy and thickly ringed with gold.

‘Someone’s put a price on your head.’

Hannibal grins, quirking an eyebrow at his beautiful, clever partner.

‘As an early-warning system, a bounty is better than radar. It inclines authorities everywhere to forsake their duty and scramble after me privately.’

Will hums, considering the truth of that statement. He wanders closer as he does and Hannibal roves his gaze over the flat chest, slim hips and soft curve of shapely buttocks. Will is in good shape, and fatherhood gives him an air of confidence and decisiveness.

 _He would kill to protect his young… It makes him all the more beautiful_.

‘Should Rinaldo Pazzi join Professor Sogliato and the late curator of the Palazzo down in the damp?’ the Omega asks, sitting down beside his Alpha as Hannibal shifts sideways on the piano stool to make room for him. ‘Should his body be found after an apparent suicide?’

Hannibal gives the question its due consideration, but then shakes his head.

‘No.’ He stares off into the distance ahead of them, a plan forming in his mind even as he speaks. ‘Rinaldi Pazzi, a Pazzi of _the_ Pazzi, Chief Inspector at the Florentine Questura, has to decide what his honor is worth.’

Will growls, low and soft, under his breath. He reaches out and places a hand on Hannibal’s knee, giving him a tight, warning squeeze through the soft fabric of his slacks.

‘What is it _worth_ to be known as the man who caught Hannibal Lecter?’ he asks, reminding him of his prized status.

Hannibal covers his hand with his own, comforting and challenging in equal measures.

‘For a policeman, credit has a short half-life,’ he muses. ‘Better to sell me.’

He picks up the music again, returning to the beginning of the sonata as he allows that statement to hang in the air between them.

Rinaldo Pazzi will capitulate to Mason Verger’s bounty. He has everything to lose, after all, and nothing to gain from an arrest.

It will make killing him all the sweeter, and Hannibal’s fingers pound the keys with vigor and excitement at the thrill of the pending hunt.

_Soon. I will kill him soon._

***

In a sleeper carriage on the cross-Euro train, Will drifts out of Hannibal’s mind and into a nightmare of his own making.

He can feel a drip on his face, light and warm. When he opens his eyes, he stares up at Chiyoh. She’s hanging from a thicket of antlers, impaled a hundred times over. Her hand reaches for him, her blank, dead eyes stare into him, silently screaming for help. But Will is frozen; his limbs locked into place as he watches the echo of her suffering.

_I’m sorry._

He wakes with a start. His heart is racing, his limbs tingling and mouth watering from the lingering scent of blood from his dream.

Rolling onto his side, he checks for the other Omega, needing to know it wasn’t real. When he sees that Chiyoh is gone, her bunk empty and the covers rumpled, panic spikes inside him.

He dresses quickly, worried for her. Throws on the same outfit as earlier in the day and wraps his coat around him to ward off the chill of the night air. He’s glad he did – his search takes him to the very last carriage on the train, to the emergency exit and the platform at the very end.

Chiyoh stands with her hands on the railing, watching the tracks stretch out into the wooded mountains beyond. Will comes to stand beside her, resting his forearms on the railing and clasping his hands together.

They stand in silence for a moment, each appreciating the darkness and the way the bright full moon casts long shadows.

‘I like the night,’ Chiyoh finally says, gazing out at the wilderness beyond the train. ‘It’s more than a period of time. It’s another place. It’s different from where we are during the day.’

‘ _We’re_ different from who we are during the day,’ Will agrees, his voice equally hushed in respect for the mood the darkness evokes. ‘Little more hidden, little less seen.’

Chiyoh smiles her agreement.

‘When life is most like a dream.’

Will turns to her, giving voice to the thought that has been plaguing him since the other Omega agreed to leave Lecter Estate with him.

‘Why are you searching for him?’ It doesn’t make sense, after all; Chiyoh is quick to remind Will that she understands Hannibal, and, by inference, that she forgives him. But she also knows that Will is on his way to kill Hannibal, so there must be another reason for her helping him. ‘What are you hoping to find?’

Chiyoh dips her head, smiling as if amused by Will’s question.

‘I’m not searching for Hannibal,’ she says softly. When she looks up at him, Will sees that her eyes are blazing with a bright, protective gold. ‘I know _exactly_ where he is.’

Will’s heart pauses, skips a beat, and then begins to race. She… She _knows?_

‘Is he in Florence?’

Chiyoh purrs, a gentle, intimate sound. She turns more fully towards him, closing the distance, and Will feels the heat coming from her slender body.

‘Yes,’ the other Omega admits, and Will shakes his head, befuddled by her and bewitched by the dancing honey of her eyes, the sweet scent of jasmine in her scent…

‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew?’ he asks, and Chiyoh raises one shoulder in a shrug, using the movement to sway closer still.

‘I told you,’ she murmurs, reaching out to clasp Will’s hand, linking their fingers together in a lingering brush of skin on skin. ‘There are means of influence…’ She’s closer again, her other hand on Will’s shoulder. His nose is full of her scent, his gaze locked to her face, drowning in the silky heat of her… ‘Other than violence.’

The kiss comes as a surprise. Soft lips meet, press, part. Will’s senses explode and he hears the rush of the wind racing past them, the hoot of a distant owl and the racing of his own pulse.

He hears silk rustle, feels Chiyoh’s breath ghost across his tongue and then they part, leaving his mouth tingling with pleasure.

‘But _violence_ ,’ Chiyoh says, ‘is what you understand.’

The shove is more unexpected than the kiss. It catches him off guard; two strong hands flat to his chest and the full strength of the other Omega against him.

Will’s back hits the railing, he overbalances and he topples, buffeted by the wind and thrown a hundred feet to smash, headfirst, into the wooden tracks.

Chiyoh watches, dispassionate, as Hannibal’s former mate plummets off the back of the train. She sees his body on the tracks for a moment, and then she is swallowed once again by the night, speeding on her way to her mentor, her friend, her guardian, and leaving Will Graham behind.

***

_The mirrors in your mind can reflect the best parts of yourself… Come back to me, mylimasis._

A snorting breath ruffles his curls, and Will feels the velvety muzzle of the Ravenstag nudge his face. He can feel himself floating, tethered between life and death, consciousness and dreaming, and he lingers there, knowing the pain will come when he opens his eyes.

The stag is insistent. It nudges him again, breathing hard, and Will lifts an arm to shoo it away. As he does, he comes crashing back into his body and a high-pitched sound of pain escaped his throat.

Everything _hurts_. His arms, his ribs, his legs… His head, most of all.

_You have to find me, Will. We have unfinished business._

The Ravenstag is walking away from him, leading him in the same direction as the train. It’s strange, but somehow its fur and feathers are darker than the night around it; sucking in the light and giving nothing back. A void. The same void as in his heart and mind since Hannibal cut the crest from the back of his neck.

_This way._

Will can’t explain it. He just knows that he has to keep going. He has to follow the stag, the same way he did when he was suffering from heat prodrome. When it led him to Abel Gideon, and then to Hannibal.

_I can’t stop. I can’t stop searching for him. I have to find him. I have to be with him._

Blinking blood from his eyes, Will staggers to his feet, taking the first limping, stumbling step. The stag doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop, and he sets his jaw in grim determination.

He has to go to Florence. Even if it means walking the rest of the way.

_I’m coming, Alpha. I’m coming for you._

***

The Genevan attorney makes the arrangement for him to meet Mason Verger the next day. The cash is counted out, [an amount] in crisp American $100 bills, and Rinaldo Pazzi sits down in a sealed bank vault before a laptop. The connection is secured, encrypted from watchful eyes, and the video chat enabled.

A scarred, disfigured man appears before the Inspector. When he speaks, Mason Verger’s voice is distorted by his lipless mouth and made more nasal by the constructed cavity where his nose once sat. Despite his gruesome façade, however, Mr Verger speaks in an arrogant drawl that immediately sets Rinaldo’s teeth on edge.

‘Hello, Rinaldo.’

‘Hello.’ Rinaldo makes sure to speak clearly and loudly, lest he be misheard during transmission to the United States.

‘Thank you _so much_ for reaching out,’ Mason says, his s’s mushy from damage to his gums. ‘Without the cooperation of concerned citizens such as yourself, _monsters_ like Hannibal Lecter would be running _wild_.’

Rinaldo suppresses a sigh, already bored of the theatrical bullshit. He’s under no illusion that this bounty is for the common good – he’s selling one monster to another. Nothing more.

‘Shall we?’ he asks, quirking a dark eyebrow at the man in the screen, and Mason narrows his glittering blue eyes in understanding.

‘Let’s,’ he agrees. ‘I will privately pay three million dollars for the doctor alive, no questions asked, discretion guaranteed. Those terms include a $100,000 advance.’

In the vault in Geneva, Rinaldo eyes the stacks of money around him. One hundred thousand dollars in unmarked bills… That alone could buy a new house, but the three million could allow him to retire with Allegra for good.

‘To qualify for the advance,’ Mason continues, drawing his attention once again, ‘you must provide a positively identifiable fingerprint from Dr Lecter.’ At the other man’s stoicism, he adds, ‘ _Capito?’_

‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ Rinaldo sighs, thinking longingly of the cash around him, and the challenge ahead of him.

‘I will require a fresh fingerprint in situ and unlifted, for my experts to examine independently,’ Mason clarifies, even as Dr Alana Bloom walks around the table to stand beside him. She’s dressed in a killer red pant suit, her lips and nails painted to match, but her knuckles are white around the handle of her walking cane and her irises are almost as bright crimson as the Chanel.

She’s scared.

‘Now, you don’t want to _alarm_ the doctor,’ Mason continues, ignoring her as she peers over his shoulder at the Omega on the screen. ‘He may disappear too well and…’ He shrugs, and Rinaldo growls his agreement at the barely-veiled threat.

‘I would be left with nothing.’

‘Si,’ Mason says, smirking. Beside him, Alana narrows her eyes.

‘So, you have no illusions about what’s going to happen to Dr Lecter?’ she asks, scenting for weakness. ‘You would be selling him into torture and death.’

Mason glances at her, almost angry, but Rinaldo doesn’t disappoint.

‘I am aware.’

Before the deal can go sideways, Mason decides to wrap things up.

‘You’ll get the rest of the money when he’s delivered alive and in our hands.’

A surge of fear makes Rinaldo speak without thinking, leaning forwards with his eyes blazing gold.

‘I don’t want Dr Lecter near Florence when you –’

‘I understand your concern,’ Mason interrupts. ‘Don’t worry; he won’t be. Toodle-oo.’ He presses a button, ending the call, leaving Rinaldo alone in Geneva, surrounded by money not yet his.

In Maryland, Alana Bloom leans closer to her employer and conspirator.

‘Hannibal’s going to kill him, you know.’

Mason scoffs a laugh and shrugs.

 _I know_ , his gesture says, as he stares at the frozen image of the grizzled Italian Omega. _And I don’t care._

Nothing will stop him getting his prize.

***

The following evening, when the air hangs still and wraps the city in a balmy embrace, Rinaldo Pazzi decides to make his move. He comes to the _Palazzo_ after hours, when he knows nobody else will be working, and enters through a disused service door.

Unbeknown to him, Hannibal, who has stalked him here from his quaint little villa, is waiting for him and sets his gramophone to play a jaunty overture: _La Gazza Ladra_. _Commendator_ Pazzi, naïve to the truth of the situation, merely pauses in the doorway of the display room, looking around and peering into the shadows seeping from the edges of the walls.

‘Dr Fell?’

His voice is weak, and doesn’t carry far. Hannibal waits, luring him closer, and Rinaldo Pazzi obliges, approaching the worktable in the center of the room. He carries a wooden box tucked under one arm, and Hannibal’s curiosity is piqued, despite his loathing of the man too weak to attempt an arrest. A man lured by the promise of easy money for betraying him to Mason Verger.

‘ _Buonasea, commendatore_ ,’ he says, his voice rich and ringing with an Alpha purr. Hunting is, after all, his favorite pastime, and now his prey is within his grasp.

Rinaldo jumps, his pulse racing, and turns to face him. When he speaks, however, his voice is steady. Resigned.

 _‘Buonosera,_ Dr Fell.’

‘Back so soon?’ Hannibal teases, slicing through a pear with a razor-sharp knife. He lifts the flesh of the fruit to his lips and takes a bite, savoring the sweet juice on his tongue.

‘Given the nature of your exhibition,’ Rinaldo says, easing the wooden box around to play it on the table between them. ‘And the contents of our last conversation, I brought something I thought you might like to see.’

Opening the lid of the antique box, he lifts out a cruel-looking metal head cage, complete with tongue-clamp and a Medieval crest brace used on “wayward” Omegas.

‘It was supposedly worn by Francesco de’Pazzi,’ Rinaldo says, ‘when he met his end.’ He sets the contraption on the table before the box and sighs. ‘My family’s guilt, cast in iron.’

Hannibal leans forward, his face lit up with genuine excitement. It is an instrument of pain, and carries with it memories of humiliation, suffering and death.

_Beautiful._

‘A Scold’s Bridle,’ he says, grinning up at Inspector Pazzi. ‘May I?’

‘Of course.’ Rinaldo watches closely as Hannibal sets the pearl-inlaid knife and half-eaten fruit onto the table, turning away to fetch white cotton gloves to protect the antique from his skin oils. There are noticeable fingerprints on the smooth steel blade – perfect for Mason Verger’s experts to examine – but there isn’t time to pick up the knife before the Alpha is back and bending to carefully pick up the bridle.

‘A wonderful heirloom,’ Hannibal says, his voice warm with approval. He sees Rinaldo’s eyes flash gold – an instinctive response to Alphan praise – and the tell-tale clench of the other man’s jaw as he fights back a purr.

Inspector Pazzi doesn’t want to feel joy at anything Hannibal Lecter says.

Well, soon all he will feel is fear.

‘I’m so glad you stopped by, _Commedator_ Pazzi,’ Hannibal continues, setting the bridle back down. ‘As _I_ have a family heirloom for _you_.’

‘Yeah?’ Rinaldo watches as Hannibal walks past him and, his heart racing with adrenaline, swipes for the knife with his handkerchief. He isn’t quick enough, however – he has to quickly tuck it away when the Alpha comes back carrying a narrow piece of wood, and swallows a frustrated growl.

Hannibal sets the plaque down, revealing a figure carved in excruciating detail into the mahogany. Despite the chunky style, the man’s features are fine and delicate, and the links of each intestine trailing from the carved abdomen are etched in sharp relief. It is a brutal image; a hanging man, suffering in the throes of death, disemboweled add both pain and humiliation.

‘Beneath the figure is written a name,’ Hannibal says, his sharp eyes watching the color drain from Rinaldo’s face, the pulse quicken in his throat and the narrowing of his pupils. ‘Can you make it out?’

Rinaldo bares his teeth in an uncomfortable smile, his jaw clenched so tightly his ears are ringing.

‘It says, “Pazzi”,’ he says, and Hannibal smiles back, his eyes glittering with cold menace.

‘This is your ancestor, Francesco,’ he explains. ‘Hanging outside the Palazzo.’ At Rinaldo’s awkward nod, clearly not enjoying the joy with which he speaks of his dead ancestor, Hannibal continues, ‘This particular illustration is “bowels out”. I’ve seen others “bowels in”. By all accounts, Francesco was led astray by thirty pieces of silver from the hand of the Papal banker.’

_Just as you, dear Rinaldo, have been led astray from the law by the offer of money from Mason Verger._

The truth screams in the silence between them. The air grows charged. Each man knows the other is aware, but neither is willing to surrender the ruse.

Not yet.

‘It’s hard to see,’ Hannibal adds, moving subtly and distracting Rinaldo by pointing back at the carving, ‘but here’s where the Alphan Archbishop bit him. Eyes wild as he choked, the Archbishop locked his teeth into Pazzi’s flesh.’

Rinaldo swallows, sweat prickling across his forehead. The fine hairs stand up across his skin and his crest tingles, warning him of the danger posed by the Alpha before him. He wants to leave; to grab the knife and run, but Dr Fell – Hannibal – smells like fire and thick musk.

He smells like a predator, and to flee now would likely trigger Rut.

‘On a related subject,’ Hannibal continues, carrying the antique back to its place behind the Omega, ‘I must confess; I’ve been giving _very_ serious thought to doing the same.’

As Rinaldo grabs the knife up in his handkerchief, Hannibal attacks from behind. He uses his greater height and reach to wrap one arm snug around the Omega’s chest, the other pressing a chloroformed rag to his mouth and nose.

Pazzi, realizing too late what is happening, struggles even as he sucks in a panicked breath. The drug-laced air seeps into his lungs, knocking him out, and he sags in the Alpha’s arms as his head swims and his vision turns gray.

Hannibal, humming happily to himself, eases the Omega’s body down onto the ground. It’s all going exactly to plan.

***

At the townhouse across the city, Jack Crawford and Allegra Pazzi sit beside each other at the dining table. Each Alpha nurses an espresso, freshly ground from local beans, but not even the rich scent can cut through the layers of worry and salt-laced panic hanging like smog. Allegra twists her wedding ring round her finger, over and over and over, and Jack fiddles with the edges of the _Storia_ _di strumenti di tortura_ pamphlet, which boasts one such historic torture instrument on the cover.

‘He said he would be home by now.’ Allegra looks at Jack, her eyes red with fear. ‘What has he done?’

Jack stirs the espresso, wondering if he should tell her of his suspicions. The bounty on Hannibal Lecter is well-known, and appears on the search list ahead of the FBI page. Rinaldo had mysteriously flown to Geneva the other day, for a meeting with an attorney he’d never mentioned before. The same law firm coincidentally used by the Verger family…

_I think he’s done something very, very stupid._

‘I’ll find him,’ he promises, gulping the coffee down in one go and rising to fetch his coat. ‘I’ll bring him back. I promise.’

***

His head hurts. His mouth tastes like bleach. His hands and feet are tingling, as if the circulation has been cut off, and there’s a tap against each side of his face, dragging him from unconsciousness. Hannibal Lecter’s voice, distant at first, growing louder as Rinaldo opens his eyes and sees the Alpha’s face come into focus.

‘Can you hear me, Signor Pazzi? Take a deep breath while you can. Clear your head.’

Rinaldo obeys, breathing hard through his nose as his mouth is sealed shut with duct tape. He’s strapped to a moving trolley, bound upright by cord and more tape, too tight and secure for him to have any chance of escaping.

As he focuses on breathing, Hannibal tilts him back and begins to push him towards one of the big windows overlooking the palazzo. There’s a cool evening breeze trickling in from outside, and Rinaldo can see the stars, shining faintly above the lights of the city.

Opening the window door, Hannibal glances down to check the distance to the cobbled ground, nodding his satisfaction. High enough that Rinaldo will swing, but not so high that his wounds cannot be seen as the morning commuters pass by the palazzo on their way to work.

‘I haven’t had a bite _all_ day,’ he teases, turning to the immobilized Omega with a grin. When Rinaldo doesn’t respond, he pushes the edge of the trolley right up to the stone sill and continues, ‘Actually, your liver and kidneys would be suitable for dinner right away.’

The orange electrical cable from the floor buffer is the perfect length. Hannibal unplugs it from the electrical socket and pulls the other end from the machine.

‘Tonight, even.’ He loops the ends around to form a noose and begins winding the other end over to create the slipknot as he adds, ‘But the rest of the meat should hang for at least a week in the current cool conditions.’ As he tightens the knot, he asks, ‘I didn’t see the forecast… Did you?’ At the Omega’s icy silence, the only answer being a narrowing of bloodshot gold eyes, Hannibal shrugs. ‘I gather that means “no”.’ Returning to the noose, he neatens the links. ‘If you tell me what I need to know, _Commendatore_ , it would be convenient for me to leave without my meal.’ He senses when Rinaldo Pazzi glances down, and hums his approval at the wave of salty fear rolling from the Omega. ‘I will ask you the questions and then we’ll see. You can trust me, you know.’ He purrs, just once, and feels his eyes prickle as they glow red. ‘Though, I expect you find trust difficult, knowing yourself.’

With his head clearer by the second, his heart racing with panic at what is happening and his inability to escape, Rinaldo struggles to focus on Dr Lecter’s words, even though he knows they are important.

‘When the police didn’t come,’ Hannibal says, ‘it was clear that you had sold me. Was it Mason Verger you sold me to?’

_If you answer my questions, I won’t eat you._

It’s a small mercy, but the only bit of kindness Rinaldo can see offered, so he nods. Managed a muffled sound, meant to be an affirmative, and Hannibal’s eyes gleam.

‘Thank you.’ He chuckles to himself. ‘I called the number on his “wanted” site once. Far from here, just for fun.’ Done securing the noose, he slips it over Rinaldo’s head and then tightens the knot until it’s snugly above his collar. Sitting _just_ a fraction above the top of his crest, adding an extra tingle of painful anticipation to the occasion, and encouraging honesty and obedience.

‘Have you told anyone at the _Questura_ about me?’ he asks, and Rinaldo attempts to move, possibly shaking his head. It’s unclear, and Hannibal frowns. ‘Is that a no?’ he checks, and the Omega repeats the movement.

No. He hasn’t told anyone about his true identity.

Then, before he can ask another question, a mobile phone rings in the breast pocket of Rinaldo’s blazer. Hannibal excuses himself for the intrusion and slips a hand inside the Omega’s jacket, pulling the cell phone out and swiping the dancing green phone to answer.

‘ _Pronto_ ,’ he says, greeting the unknown caller in a cheerful manner. The voice he hears is familiar – female and soft, though with a new resonance that has a distinctly Alphan sound to it.

‘Inspector Pazzi, my name is Alana Bloom.’ Watching the afternoon sun bleed into evening over the trees of the Verger estate in Maryland, United States, Alana feels her pulse in her throat. She’s never been this worried for an Omega before – it must be the new hormones since her accident. Since her caste change. But she can’t ignore this protective urge – she can’t _not_ warn the naïve, desperate Omega of the danger he’s in.

‘You don’t know me,’ she continues, unaware that she is, in fact, speaking to the very danger of which she has called to warn. ‘But I know your benefactor.’

Hannibal considers the implications of Alana working with Mason Verger and quickly dismisses any surprise to find she has defected. She always was pragmatic, and Mason Verger’s offer of security must seem appealing.

‘Hello, Alana.’ He waits for a beat, imagining the look of dawning horror on his former colleague’s face and then continues, ‘I’m afraid the Inspector is otherwise occupied.’

‘… Is he dead?’ Alana asks, forcing the words past a swelling growl in her throat. She wants to snarl at Hannibal; to fight and savage him in defense of the Omega.

She wants to take Rinaldo Pazzi and hide as far away from Hannibal Lecter as she possibly can.

‘There’s _nothing_ I would love more than to be able to chat with you, Alana,’ Hannibal says, ‘but you caught me at a rather awkward moment.’ He turns back to Rinaldo and smirks. ‘Nice to hear your voice.’

Ending the call, he tucks the cell phone back into Inspector Pazzi’s pocket and undoes the belts holding the Omega to the trolley.

‘So, _Commedatore_ ,’ he says, picking up their conversation as if there had been no interruption. ‘Which do you think?’ He unbuttons the blazer, spreading the fabric apart to show the delicate, vulnerable abdomen of the other man. ‘Bowels in or bowels out?’

At Rinaldo’s muffled whimper, Hannibal opens the pearl-inlaid switch blade he’d used to slice the fruit earlier.

‘Out, I think,’ he says, and stabs the knife deep into Rinaldo’s gut. Dragging the blade through the muscle, he splits him open to spill blood and guts down his front. The lacerations release foul-smelling fluid from the organs and Rinaldo spasms, his golden eyes rolling back as he chokes on blood forced back up his esophagus.

Without missing a beat, Hannibal shoves the trolley forwards and pitches him, headfirst, out of the window. Rinaldo can’t even scream as a falls; the cord whips through its coils and then snaps taut, jerking him to such a sudden stop that his neck snaps. The tear in his abdomen splits wider apart and his intestines splatter onto the cobblestones below, steaming gently in the cool night air.

 _Perfect_.

Hannibal leans over the edge of the sill to see his work, his heart swelling with pride. The effect is dramatic and makes a statement. Betray an Alpha of power and be disemboweled, hanged, and dishonored.

At exactly the right moment, Jack Crawford steps into the palazzo, his eyes blazing with red fury and fangs bared as he sees the dead body of Rinaldo Pazzi hanging below the window where Hannibal stands.

Smiling at his former friend and current enemy, Hannibal pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the blood from the blade. The invitation is clear, the challenge as loud as a scream.

_Come and get me, Jack. If you can._

They lock eyes with each other, red on red, and then Jack snarls. He races into the building and Hannibal moves away, walking quickly to collect his suit jacket and briefcase. He has no desire to fight Jack – he would prefer to slip away and be lost, leaving behind a smiting wound of failure once again.

When he reaches the main room of the torture instrument display, however, he pauses. The gallery stinks of Rut; hot, heavy musk, laced with Jack’s distinctive aftershave.

He’s here, in this room. Somewhere, waiting for him.

_Clever. You’re learning._

Slowing his heart, Hannibal takes a few steps closer to the breaking wheel, adjusting his jacket over his arm. If he’s going to fight, he wants his movements as unhindered as possible.

‘Hello, Jack,’ he calls, seeking out any sign of movement in the shadows hugging the walls. At the oppressive silence, he tries another lure. ‘Did you get my note?’

Nothing. Hannibal feels a prickle of unease, similar to the nervousness he feels with Will, and he pulls the switchblade from his pocket again, opening it with a soft click.

‘I’m truly sorry about Bella…’ He speaks to cover the sound of his advance, words spilling from his mouth as his eyes check every nook and crevice for sign of the other Alpha. ‘For her, night and day must have been very much the same in the end.’ No movement. No thud of heavy-soled shoes on wood…

_Where are you?_

‘When she could no longer stir or speak… did you speak for her?’ He casts his barbs as low as possible; anything to garner a response. A reaction he can use to pinpoint the other man’s location. ‘I imagine you were capable of giving _any_ medication Bella may have needed in the night…’ He smirks, enjoying himself. ‘Did you practice injections on an orange, Jack?’

There’s a click, a rustle of static and then classical music plays. The same record that Hannibal played earlier, when he lured Inspector Pazzi up to this very room.

Hannibal spins, trying to catch sight of Jack near the gramophone, but there’s nothing. Just the display cabinets; glass shining softly in the low light, Omegan crest rippers and knuckle-breakers glinting inside.

‘What medication did you give her in the end?’ he asks, looking left to right without moving. ‘Was it too much? Or just enough?’

Having removed his coat, jacket and shoes, Jack Crawford comes up quickly behind Hannibal. The sound of the music covers the whisper of his socked feet and he grabs the other Alpha by the hair, wrenching him around and throwing him, bodily, through the glass of a weapons display cabinet.

Hannibal, having landed on his backside, growls up at the other Alpha, who paces in front of him like a tiger.

As Hannibal pulls himself up, Jack delivers a sharp kick square to his chest, launching him backwards to fly several feet away. Hannibal lands, hard, on his back, cracking his skull on the floor, and Jack takes the opportunity to climb through the ruined display cabinet and advance. As the smaller Alpha lifts his head, Jack punches him, throwing all of his strength into it. Hannibal drools blood and tries to crawl away, needing a moment to recover. But Jack unclips a wicked three-pronged hook from the display case and stabs it straight down into his calf, snagging his muscle and using the painful grip to drag him closer for another beating.

Hannibal cries out, fingers scrabbling uselessly for the fallen switchblade. He snarls as Jack uses the hook to pull him, hot pain shooting up his leg as the metal tears flesh and muscle, but he uses the movement to twist onto his back and kicks up with his heel as Jack bends over to hit him again. His shoe connects solidly with Jack’s chin, making him reel, but it’s not enough to topple him and Jack springs back with another hard punch to his face.

Hannibal’s nose breaks, his eye swells and he sees bright spots. Before he can catch his breath, Jack thumps his kidneys, his ribs, his kidneys again, pounding into his flesh with the deadly accuracy of a man fighting with logic, not emotion.

Another uppercut to his nose knocks him flat on his back, and when Jack reaches down to grab two fistfuls of his shirt and waistcoat, Hannibal clings on to his forearms. Jack pulls him up and they both stagger, struggling against each other’s strength, but, before he can do anything to rectify the situation, Hannibal finds himself flung through the air to hit a body cage and then the base of the breaking wheel.

Sweating and breathing hard, Jack rolls up his shirtsleeves and rebalances himself. Hannibal wrenches the hook from his calf, gasping out a groan at the agony of it, but before he can do more than get to his feet, the other Alpha is charging again.

Jack swings his arm, his fist connecting with Hannibal’s cheek. He knocks him back against the wheel and Hannibal slips in his own blood, bashing his forehead against the wood. He falls, trapping his arm in the spokes, and Jack uses the wheel to crush the bones of his elbow.

He needs to make Jack angry. Bait him into a misstep.

‘I brought Bella back from death,’ he gasps, fighting the darkness clouding the edges of his vision. ‘And you’ve returned her to it.’ As the other Alpha snarls at him, he smirks up into his face. ‘Is that where you’re taking _me_ , Jack?’

Jack growls, and punches him, again, right in the nose. Hannibal sags, momentarily losing consciousness, and comes back to the present just in time for Jack to drag him up to his feet and headbutt him. When he drops him over his shoulder, Hannibal crashes through the glass of another display cabinet, shards sticking to the blood pooling on his cheeks and in his eye sockets.

The beating goes on and on. Hannibal finds himself pinned up against the wall, kicked and smacked back and forth, barely able to breathe between each blow. It’s like being a child again; chained and tortured for the amusement of rabid Alphas, and Hannibal feels the first flicker of true fear since the fight began.

_Is Jack going to beat me to death?_

The moment Jack stops, pausing to catch his breath, Hannibal lunges. He doesn’t care how he looks, how he sounds; he just needs to escape.

_The window._

Exhausted from the fight but determined to finish it, once and for all, Jack takes a moment to catch his breath. Adjusting his bloodstained sleeves, he returns for the three-pronged hook, which is dripping with the other Alpha’s blood. Hannibal is on his front, dragging himself with animal desperation through the alcove where he’d held Rinaldo Pazzi in his final moments.

_The window… I can escape through the window._

Hannibal pulls his broken body up the lip of the windowsill. He’s at the edge, nearing collapse, and he sits for a moment as another wave of gray spots blind him, his limbs losing their strength. He can’t bait Jack; can’t rile him. Can’t do anything to make him falter. Make him stop.

Jack comes again, filled with righteous wrath, and Hannibal sees his fate in those glowing, crimson eyes.

‘How will you feel?’ he asks, his voice hoarse and wavering, a tooth loose and his whole body throbbing with pain even as patches of numbness spread. ‘… When I’m gone?’

Jack smirks, and hefts the hook in his right hand.

 _‘Alive_ ,’ he breathes, and whacks the hook as hard as he can across Hannibal’s face.

The pain is blinding. Hannibal’s heart skips a beat with it and he topples backwards, freefalling for a sickening moment before –

Broken fingers scream as he catches hold of Rinaldo Pazzi’s dead, hanging body. His shoulders burn as he swings, holding his weight on the lifeless Omega, but he’s alive. Literally clinging to life with the tenacity of someone who has been to the edge before. Someone who knows just how far the body can go before it breaks.

_I’m broken but I’m not dead, yet._

Lunging for the window, Jack grabs the frame for balance. He stares over the edge, expecting to see Rinaldo’s hanging body and then, broken on the cobbles below, Hannibal. Instead, to his horror, he finds the other Alpha clutching the dead Omega, breathing hard and smirking up at him. As their eyes lock, a thousand words pass between them, each one sharp as a knife.

_You’ve failed again, Jack. You should have killed me when you had the chance._

He could still fall. Jack knows it’s a slim hope but, as he watches the Chesapeake Ripper, the Monster of Florence – _Will’s mate and the father of his children –_ all he wants to see is the other man lose his grip and fall to his death.

_It’ll be over for good… Just die, and let us all go._

Hannibal breathes, just breathes, giving himself a moment. Jack is frozen, despair leeching the strength from his legs, and the moment stretches for eternity.

Then, unable to hold the additional weight, Rinaldo’s body begins to rip. Hannibal jolts, slipping down a leg, the sinew stretching and snapping, and then lets himself fall.

_I’m not dying, Jack. Not today. Not for you._

It’s further to the ground than he’d thought. Hannibal lands with a thud, cracking his elbow and skinning his forearm. His ankle twists and rocks dig into the torn muscle of his calf. There’s a myriad of pain and Hannibal groans, too exhausted to worry about his score of injuries. His world narrows to a simple focus; his desire to escape. To get back to the safety of his apartment. His territory. His nest.

Checking the state of his elbow, wondering if he can summon the strength to pop the joint back into place, Hannibal risks one last glance up at Jack. The other Alpha stares, dismayed and defeated, and Hannibal manages a final, lingering smirk before he limps away into the gloom of the night.

It’s over. He’s won. Again.

_I always win, Jack._


	6. Dolce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will reunites with Hannibal in Florence. Alana and Margot’s relationship becomes more intimate, and Mason works with Cordell to plan the menu for his former psychiatrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, peeps! As always, I hope you enjoy this latest instalment! I'll post again ASAP and am hard at work on my non-A/B/O season 4 story as well. :-)
> 
> Take care, everyone, stay safe and well! xxx

SIX

_Dolce_

When Will sees Hannibal enter their apartment, injured as he is, he’s surprised the other man made it home at all.

‘Jack Crawford is here,’ Hannibal gasps, and collapses onto a chaise lounge barely two steps into the room. Blood has soaked through his white shirt and he’s tied a tourniquet around his leg with his belt to stem the flow from his torn calf. His face is a mess of swelling, bruises and cuts, with a particularly vicious dent in his cheek, suggesting a fracture to the bone beneath.

‘Did you kill him?’ Will asks, hiding his dismay at the wounds and wrapping an arm around his Alpha to help him into the bathroom. ‘Or did you show mercy?’

Hannibal huffs a laugh and lowers himself onto the window seat. As Will runs him a hot bath, he undresses with sore, shaking hands.

‘I didn’t get the chance,’ he confesses, dropping the pile of torn, stained clothes to the side for burning. ‘ _He_ showed _me_ mercy.’

Will glances up at him, perched on the edge of the tub, his hand in the water to test the temperature. His expression is unreadable; a myriad of emotions shimmering beneath the blue surface of his eyes, and Hannibal feels a pang of longing.

 _I know you’re not really here –_ he thinks, his imagined companion blurring to become blond-haired Bedelia – _but I wish you were._

The daydream is preferable to reality, and Hannibal indulges himself in the notion of being cared for by his Omega. Will lends him a shoulder to lean on as he eases down into the scalding tub, and runs soothing fingers through his blood-crusted hair as Hannibal’s breathing betrays him with a hitch.

‘I’ve got you,’ Will murmurs, wetting the strands before massaging shampoo into the tender, torn scalp. ‘Let me clean you up.’

Hannibal nods and pushes the pain to the edges of his mind through an effort of focused breathing and meditation.

Blood drips into the bath, blossoming into red clouds that soak into the sponge Will dunks. He uses the stained water to rinse Hannibal’s face, then his shoulders, and kneels beside the tub when he reaches the arms.

Hannibal remains silent, his eyes closed and head tilted back. One could be forgiven for thinking him asleep, were it not for the sharpness of his scent as Will works, and the Omega smells his own sweet arousal at the display of dominance and control.

_Even in the face of death, even in agony, you’re still in charge. You’re still a predator._

‘Did you kill Inspector Pazzi?’ he asks softly, reaching for Hannibal’s arm and tilting it palm-upwards. ‘Was it as you planned?’

Hannibal opens an eye and glances down the length of his wrist. The wounds from Matthew Brown glow white against the honeyed hue of his tan and he sees Will falter; smells the intoxicating blend of guilt and righteous fury that his beloved feels at the memory of attempting to kill him.

‘Rinaldo Pazzi sold me, yes,’ he replies, and Will’s fingers tremble around the sponge. They both know what this means; Hannibal has killed him, an Omega. It is an abhorrent thing for an Alpha to do, but was it an act of sadism or self-defense?

‘To Mason Verger?’ Will checks, and Hannibal closes his eyes with a confirming hum. He doesn’t acknowledge the sting of water falling into the numerous cuts on his hand; doesn’t allow his perception of reality to waver when Will rubs ointment into the worst of the slices.

When it comes time for Will to suture his calf, however, he keeps a close watch. Will helps him balance his leg on the edge of the tub, angling a gild-framed mirror to allow Hannibal a close view of the wound.

‘You’ll need to stitch the muscle, first, then the skin,’ the Alpha says, and Will takes a deep breath to settle his nerves before he starts.

Hannibal places a gentle hand on his shoulder, smiling when Will glances at him.

‘I trust you.’

_We’re in this together. All the way._

Will nods, and begins to sew. He threads the curved hook through the flesh, tugging the thread to form a neat, if wonky, line.

‘I know you’d do better,’ he says, grimacing at the other man. ‘It’ll leave a scar.’

‘Your hands are steadier than mine right now,’ Hannibal assures him, holding out his rope-burned palms, showing him the trembling fingers. ‘And scars are the cracks on an oil canvas, remember?’

‘Stories of a life lived,’ Will murmurs, and, reaches for the surgical scissors.

At the same moment, just as Bedelia du Maurier cuts the last of the surgical thread in her apartment with Hannibal, the _Questura di Firenze_ use a pair of shears to sever the electrical cord suspending Inspector Pazzi’s corpse above the courtyard of the _Palazzo Capponi_.

The Omega’s body is caught and reverently lowered into a bag on the stretcher beneath him, a half-dozen Alphas taking every care to treat the murdered man with care.

 _The respect he was denied in life,_ Will Graham thinks, limping closer through the lines of early-morning onlookers, _they now show him in death._

‘Jack,’ he calls, announcing his presence to the burly Alpha stood watching on the other side of the tape. 

His former boss and mentor turns, grimly shaking with him as he takes in the bruised and cut appearance of the foolhardy Omega. He doesn’t ask what happened; perhaps he senses that Will won’t tell him, and merely leads the way inside. With his professional reputation at the FBI preceding him, he has managed to secure private access to the crime scene, and Jack takes Will straight to the display room of the _Palazzo Capponi_

Stepping inside, Will’s chest tightens and his heart skips a beat. His nose is assaulted with the scent of his Alpha; injured and exhausted, afraid… Hannibal has been wearing a different cologne; sharper than any previously worn.

Will doesn’t like it.

‘He’s wounded,’ Jack says, watching as Will examines the items on display, touching everything. ‘And he’s worried.’

‘No,’ Will says, picking up a wood carving of the infamous Omegan traitor, Francesco Pazzi. It had been on the floor, alongside a dozen of Hannibal’s scattered possessions, and retains a lingering scent of his Alpha in the grain. ‘Hannibal doesn’t worry. Knowing he’s in danger won’t rattle him anymore than killing does.’

He sets the carving down and moves to the blood-smeared breaking wheel.

‘If Rinaldo Pazzi had decided to do his job as an officer of the _law_ ,’ Jack growls, ‘he would have determined very quickly that he was Hannibal Lecter. It would have taken less than _thirty minutes_ to get a warrant.’

‘All those resources were denied to Pazzi,’ Will says, scoffing a bitter laugh as he limps past him. ‘As soon as he decided to sell Hannibal, he became a bounty hunter.’

‘Outside the law and alone,’ Jack muses, refusing to acknowledge how uncomfortable Will’s prowling makes him. The Omega, dressed in an expensive navy suit, something not unlike the type of suit his former Alpha would wear, moves like a predator. Will is keenly focused, his golden eyes taking in every detail of the fight scene and the life that Hannibal has built for himself. When he chuckles dryly at the statement, Jack adds, ‘And here _we_ are. Outside the law and alone.’

 _I’m not alone,_ Will thinks, but he keeps quiet as Jack comes to stand beside him. The Alpha’s scent is thick with the old musk of Rut. It slithers up Will’s nostrils, turning his stomach, and he has to move away before he retches.

‘Have you told _la polizia_ they’re looking for Hannibal Lecter?’ he asks, clenching his back teeth against nausea.

Jack growls under his breath.

‘They’re motivated to find Dr Fell _inside_ the law,’ he says, sharp with desperation. He turns to watch Will pace, knowing that the Omega just needs this to be over and done with, to have closure so he can go back home to his kids and be at peace. But it’s too dangerous to ask for help from the authorities. Will must understand that? ‘Knowing _who_ he is, what he’s worth… it’ll just coax them out of bounds.’

‘It’d be a free-for-all,’ Will agrees, and Jack nods.

‘And Hannibal will slip away,’ he says, studying the Omega with narrowed eyes. He has to ask, even though he doesn’t want to. But he needs to know. ‘… Will you slip away with him?’

 _He doesn’t trust me._ Will looks back over his shoulder, curious at the surge of excitement the notion brings. _I don’t trust myself, either._

‘Part of me will _always_ want to,’ he admits, and Jack nods.

‘You have to cut that part out,’ he says, prompting a bitter laugh from the Omega.

‘I think Hannibal did the cutting,’ he says, rubbing above the tender, tingling skin on the nape of his neck. Jack winces, regretting his choice of words, but Will moves the conversation on before he can force an apology out. ‘Of course you found him here.’ He looks around at the museum, ignoring the reflection of a pale, pinched face in the glass. When Jack frowns in question, he explains, ‘Not because of the exhibit, but because of the _crowd_ it attracts.’

He comes to a stop beside the shattered glass of the starvation cage display case and turns to the Alpha, who approaches slowly from the other side.

‘You _had_ him, Jack… He was _beaten_.’ Will imagines his Alpha, battered and bleeding, lying crumpled at Jack’s feet. The subsequent image of mercy, of Jack _allowing_ him to escape, wrenches a snarl from his throat. ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’

The passion in Will’s voice, coupled with the view of him through the bars of the starvation cage, as if Will is trapped inside, hungry with the need to hunt his former mate, strikes at Jack’s heart. He feels his irises prickle red and it takes all of his strength not to reach out to offer the Omega physical comfort.

 _I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you,_ he thinks, even as, aloud, he says, 

‘Maybe I need _you_ to…’

Will sighs, and Jack lowers his eyes in apology for the burden he’s placed on the younger man’s shoulders. The tenuous accord they have struck, which is entirely dependent on Will’s rage being stronger than his former loyalty.

 _I know I should kill him,_ Will muses, resuming his inspection of the exhibit, and everything his Alpha has built here. _I just don’t know if I’ll be able to twist the knife when I strike._

***

Across the city, as the mid-morning breeze ruffles his freshly dried hair, Hannibal sketches the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore; its iconic dome rising high above the rooftops of the buildings edging the palazzo.

‘I want to be able to draw these streets from memory,’ he says, speaking without glancing up when he senses Bedelia approach. The other Alpha stops before him, glancing down at the detailed charcoal artwork, so like the view from their apartment balcony, and Hannibal continues, ‘I want to be able to draw the Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo.’

‘You won’t be coming back here for a very _long_ time.’ Bedelia takes the pencil and tugs the leather-bound sketchbook from Hannibal’s grasp, reminding him of their deadline.

Hannibal sighs.

‘Memories of Florence will be all I have,’ he says, his gaze growing distant. ‘Florence is where I became a man.’ He smiles sadly. ‘I see my end and my beginning.’

Bedelia hums, her lips thinning in a cruel, knowing smile.

‘All of our endings can be found in our beginnings,’ she says, sauntering back inside. ‘History repeats itself, and there is no escape.’

She stops before the dining table, where a small suitcase and hand luggage sit waiting.

Limping up behind her, Hannibal inspects the bags.

‘You’ve packed lightly,’ he comments, and Bedelia slips the sketchbook into the side-pocket of the suitcase.

‘I’ve packed for _you_ ,’ she explains, turning to face her captor and conspirator. ‘This is where I leave you. Or, more accurately, where _you_ leave _me_.’

Hannibal considers the words. Considers the offer before him, and admires the woman’s nerve.

‘This isn’t how I intended to say goodbye,’ he says, draping his coat over his arm. ‘I imagined it differently.’

Bedelia’s eyes gleam; rich red thickening to swallow cerulean blue.

‘ _I_ didn’t.’ She saunters closer, body wrapped in a navy dress, nearly matching the other Alpha’s height by the six-inch stilettos on her feet. She’s dressed powerfully, and exudes confidence. ‘I _knew_ that you intended to eat me. And I knew that you had no intention of eating me _hastily_.’

Hannibal smiles, his own eyes dark and flat like a shark’s.

‘It would be a shame not to savor you,’ he replies, his like for her vastly outweighed by his desire to consume her flesh.

Bedelia graces him with a grim, thin-lipped smile.

‘I have not _marinated_ long enough for your tastes,’ she says, referring not only to the oysters, acorns and marsala wine that has been her diet for the past few months, but her mental preparation as well. Hannibal’s influence is dark and insidious; he has slowly been chipping away at any remaining sense of morality and goodness in her, leaving her own darkness raw and exposed.

Hannibal swallows, agreeing with the sentiment but disappointed not to carry out the recipes he has planned, and Bedelia smiles.

‘When they come for you –’

‘And they _will_ come,’ Hannibal says, certain that Will, at least, is closing in.

‘– What will you say of me?’ Bedelia asks, the first hint of fear coloring her voice. Hannibal finds it interesting that it is not the prospect of him eating her alive that frightens her, but the idea that her reputation might be sullied; that she might be imprisoned and held accountable for her choices during her time with him.

He smiles.

‘I will help you tell the version of events you want to be told,’ he promises, adding, before she asks why, ‘I will help you because you _asked_ me to.’

_And that means you owe me a debt. A debt that will, someday, be paid._

Bedelia smiles, fully aware that she is leaving his side indentured to him, and closes the distance still further.

‘You may make a meal of me yet, Hannibal…’ Her breath ghosts across his lips; soft, pliant lips, that hide deadly teeth. Hannibal smells her fear, and her arousal, and dips his head to meet the kiss. It is chaste but poignant; their first embrace, a physical representation of their intimacy.

The only taste he will get of her.

Bedelia pulls back with a smirk, her eyes blazing crimson with victory.

‘… But not today.’

She has won. She has survived him. Now, she just needs to survive Will Graham.

***

At the Verger estate in Maryland, USA, Cordell Doemling is preparing a sample menu for his employer. Taking the freshly slaughtered piglets from the walk-in refrigerator, he slices through the tails at the rump, skinning the flesh from the meat and chopping into sections. Then, as they marinate in oil and seasoning, he chops garlic and ginger before frying them off to create an Asian-inspired dish.

‘Pig tails,’ he announces, lifting the silver lid on the bowl that he places before Mason Verger at the dining table. ‘Cut into sections to give the aesthetic of fingers cut at the joint.’

‘Finger food…’ Mason huffs a laugh at his own wit, looking down at the delicacies his caretaker has provided for him. ‘Huh.’

‘Hands are how we touch the world,’ Cordell explains. ‘They’re tactile. Sensual.’

_Especially when wrapped around a young girl’s throat, squeezing the life from her. Or elbow-deep inside a boy’s rectum, making him squeal._

‘Remove an arm,’ he continues, smiling down at his employer, ‘and your patient will still feel phantom digits.’

 _I should know,_ he thinks; _I did it often enough at the Asylum. Nobody cared about those patients; they were all mine to play with._

‘Imagine,’ he finishes, picking up a fork to stab the first delicacy, ‘how Dr Lecter will feel when he watches you nibble on _his_ fingers.’

‘Oh, poetry, Cordell, _poetry_ ,’ Mason croons, opening his malformed mouth to take the offering.

‘In a ginger, black-vinegar sauce,’ Cordell adds, and Mason begins to chew. The moment he does, crushing the nub with his molars, he gags on the texture of the food.

‘Eugh! It’s mostly skin and bone!’

Cordell shrugs and moves the bowl to the side, ready for the second course. 

‘The actual fingers will have more meat,’ he explains. ‘Then, there’s the marrow.’ He lifts a second silver lid, using the same fork to pierce a soft ball of meat from the dish inside. ‘Here it is, in a fermented bean sauce.’

Mason, having swallowed the imitation finger, opens his mouth for the marrow. The flavors explode across his tongue but the balance is all wrong and he retches.

‘Ugh! I prefer the ginger!’

The sudden flood of saliva is too much for his damaged throat. As some of it trickles down, the muscles lock and he nearly chokes on the food.

‘No, no,’ Cordell says, reaching for a bowl. ‘Spit.’

The marrow hits the bottom of the dish with a melodic ring and Cordell’s blue eyes gleam with joy as Mason frowns, curious.

‘A Buddhist singing bowl,’ he explains. ‘The song represents the start of a new day.’

_The rise of the Betas. The truly supreme race._

‘Buddhists don’t eat meat,’ Mason grumbles, but Cordell just shrugs, unbothered by the difficult client.

‘But this isn’t meat,’ he reasons, raising an eyebrow when Mason looks at him in confusion. ‘This is man.’

Mason can’t argue with that, nor does he want to. As Cordell moves the singing bowl away, setting the table for the rest of his master’s supper, Mason muses aloud to himself.

‘Papa always used to say meat was a people business… He was a pioneer in livestock production; I’m sure _he’s_ eaten someone.’ He shivers. ‘I must admit; I tremble at the notion myself.’

Cordell, basting the imitation fingers with the sauce before adding them to a plate of mashed vegetables and potatoes, smiles.

‘I find there’s something reassuring about you eating Dr Lecter,’ he says, smirking at how _easy_ it is to play Mason’s insecurities against himself, whilst stroking his ego, manipulating him into giving him everything he wants. ‘It makes _you_ the apex predator.’

_No more “Alphas first”. No more second-best for Betas. I was born to rule, and I will._

‘I like that,’ Mason agrees, nodding to himself. ‘“Apex predator”.’

Cordell straightens, an idea making his eyes burn with a mad, cruel light.

‘We could _Peking Duck_ him,’ he suggests, and Mason raises an eyebrow.

‘Oh…?’ he prompts, inspiring Cordell to turn and grin.

‘You have to torture a duck to prepare it,’ he says, foregoing modern convention and referring to the traditional methodology for added flair. ‘Pump its skin up with air, then glaze it with hot honey and hang it by its neck until it dries.’

‘ _Mmm_ … and then roast until crispy…’ Mason closes his eyes, imagining himself at a banquet table, Dr Lecter’s Peking-style body laid out before him. The skin is puffed up, darkened to a beautiful brown and shiny with glaze. When Mason strolls along the side of the table, he runs two fingers through the honey sitting atop the dead Alpha’s crisp, snappable skin, sucking the marinade off with the sort of deep, rumbling purr he can’t manage with his own Beta body.

‘Transubstantiation.’

He’s the winner. He’ll _always_ be the winner. No matter what.

The dream fades into the ringing of his cell phone, and Mason groans as he wakes from sleep. With his one good hand, he fumbles around on the covers for his controller, his fingers long and pale, like the spindly legs of a spider. When he eventually finds the remote, he pushes the button to activate the connected phone.

‘I’m here,’ he says. ‘Tell me.’

‘Sir.’ The lawyer in Geneva sounds apologetic, and worried. He should be. The last envoy was shot for delivering a disappointing message. ‘It’s… not good news.’

***

Watching the Italian news broadcast of Inspector Pazzi’s death, Alana Bloom is surprised by the level of revulsion she feels at the Omega’s death. She’s never experienced such a gut-wrenching, bone-deep sense of _wrongness_ before, but knowing that Hannibal has murdered Inspector Pazzi, and that Mason Verger had a hand in the killing, makes her want to be sick.

The news anchor is an Alpha, dressed in a sharp red blazer that matches the crimson of her eyes. The irises themselves are the only indication of her emotion, but the turmoil raging there is palpable, and even Mason cannot stand the sight of her for long. With a stab of his wasted, pale forefinger, he switches off the television and a ringing silence follows.

 _Well_ , the room appears to say, each member of the cabal holding his or her breath in anticipation of the Verger heir’s fury. _That didn’t go to plan._

Mason wishes he could clench his back teeth but the muscles of his jaw no longer have the strength. His thumb twitches; he can’t even ball his hand into a fist.

_If I were an Alpha, my eyes would be blazing red like Papa’s used to._

‘I feel like I just paid a lot of money for a dead dago,’ he growls, and Margot looks away so as not to flinch. She may be safe from her brother’s “attention” since the accident, but he is as inventive as ever when he takes out his anger on her.

‘Feces will fly about Pazzi,’ she says, attempting a neutral statement to both agree with, but not stoke, her brother’s wrath.

‘Better get it out that Pazzi was dirty,’ Mason says, speaking more to the hulking figure of Cordell at his shoulder. ‘They’ll take it better if he was dirty.’ He frowns. ‘ _Was_ he dirty?’

‘Except for this, I don’t know,’ Margot replies, and Alana smells the sweet, salty spike of fear. She clenches her fist around the handle of her walking cane and takes a slow, deliberate step forwards, using her Alphan body as a shield and acting as a distraction for Mason.

‘What if they trace Pazzi back to you?’ she asks, but Mason scoffs the concern away.

‘Oh, I can take care of _that_.’

‘You took care of Pazzi,’ Alana reminds him, and Mason narrows his eyes at the challenge she is so openly presenting to him.

‘I have little interest in the expensive piece of _meat_ twitching at the end of that electrical cord, Dr Bloom.’

The dismissive tone makes it _very_ clear what he thinks of the dead Omega, and Alana allows a touch of anger to color her voice.

‘Might _want_ to get interested.’ Before she loses her investor, she reminds him, ‘Hannibal could disappear too well and you’d be left with nothing.’ _We can’t let that happen. I can’t let that happen._ She sighs. ‘Better buy another cop.’ Then, as if adding an afterthought, ‘Better buy the whole department.’

_He won’t be so lucky next time._

***

Once Hannibal has left the apartment, Bedelia Du Maurier acts quickly. Loosening the bottom screw of the left-hand vent in the bathroom, she slides her hand inside until she feels soft leather until her fingers.

She withdraws a slim brown wallet and carries over to the little desk on which sits the crystal decanters of whisky and brandy. Unrolling the pouch, she removes the latex tourniquet from inside and, once she’s rolled up the sleeve of her dress, wraps it tight around her bicep.

Engrossed as she is with bringing the vein up to the surface, she doesn’t immediately notice the presence of another person in the room. It is only the faint stirring of air, carrying with it the sugar-sweet scent of an unbonded Omega, that she looks up.

A young Japanese woman, dressed in a military coat and carrying a rifle, stands in the doorway behind her. Bedelia can see her in the mirror, which stands off to her right.

Without turning, Bedelia speaks.

‘You must be looking for Hannibal Lecter.’ The young Omega doesn’t move, but a flicker of gold acknowledges the response in her eyes and Bedelia nods. ‘One of his patients?’

‘No.’ Chiyoh studies the Alpha carefully. She doesn’t smell much like Hannibal, even though her belongings share the same space as her mentor, and she’s much too sharp and cruel to be his partner. ‘Not a patient. Where is he?’

Bedelia smiles and, finally turning in the chair, replies,

‘Seeing how you let yourself in, forgive me if it’s forward for me to ask… Who the hell _are_ you?’

_Another mate? Does Hannibal have a harem of Omegas, like the Alphas of old? I’d be surprised, given how obsessed he is with Will Graham. But perhaps the other man is a new toy in a long line of broken things._

Chiyoh narrows her blazing gold eyes.

‘Family.’

_Ah… The infamous Charge… I remember Hannibal mentioning his Omegan Ward._

Bedelia rises and saunters closer, a low purr rumbling in the air between them.

‘And you’ve come _all_ the way from home.’

Chiyoh jerks her chin at the other woman.

‘Who are _you?’_

Bedelia smiles and leans against the gilded doorframe.

‘I’m his psychiatrist.’

Chiyoh glances, pointedly, at the tourniquet, and the wallet containing vials of drugs and a syringe on the table behind her.

Bedelia shrugs, unashamed to be caught about to inject herself with an illicit substance.

‘Medicinal purposes,’ she says, loosening the band.

Chiyoh smiles sadly and shakes her head. The Alpha before her is so broken, she can’t even see how deep into the abyss she is. She think she’s in control, that somehow she’s coping, managing her involvement with Hannibal, but she’s dancing on thin ice and there’s no rope to pull her to safety.

‘You’re like his bird,’ she says, remembering the same feeling. A feeling that Will Graham stoked in her when he released her from the Lecter Estate. ‘I’m his bird, too.’ She grimaces. ‘He puts us in cages, to see what we’ll do.’

Bedelia hums in agreement.

‘Fly away, or dash ourselves dead against the bars.’

‘ _You_ haven’t flown away,’ Chiyoh points out, and Bedelia smirks.

‘ _You_ are flying right _towards_ him.’ She quirks an eyebrow. ‘How _does_ he inspire such… _devotion?’_

Chiyoh frowns, offended by the insinuation that she might be bonded to her Guardian.

‘You’re his _psychiatrist_ ,’ she replies, her tone icy. ‘You tell me.’

Bedelia considers the response, and then gives a languid shrug.

‘You could add to what I’ve learned from my experience with him… and from the mute postures of the dead.’ Her eyes gleam with a dark, feral light, and she steps forwards as she asks, softly, ‘Were you there? Did you _watch_ as the wild beast within him turned from the teat and entered the world?’

Chiyoh sighs, the vibrant gold in her eyes dimming with sorrow.

‘I met the beast,’ she replies. ‘And I saw him grow.’ A sharp note of concern colors her scent with lemongrass and smoke. ‘Someone wants to kill him.’

Bedelia’s upper lip curls back from her fangs in a sneer.

‘More than _one_ someone, I’d say.’ She tilts her head, considering the tall, deadly Omega before her. ‘What do _you_ want?’

Chiyoh smiles; swift and cold.

‘I want to cage him.’

_Like he caged me._

Bedelia’s gaze softens.

‘I thought Will Graham was Hannibal’s biggest mistake… I wonder if it isn’t _you_.’ She smiles. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me... I have to take my medicine.’

_Before Will Graham comes for me._

***

The cap of the glass capsules breaks easily. The fluid inside is tinged red, like blood in the water. As Bedelia prepares a dose of the concoction, she wonders how far Hannibal has made it by now.

The needle pierces the skin of her arm, sliding deep into the vein pulsing in the crook of her elbow. With a swift and decisive plunge, Bedelia empties the contents of the syringe into her system and –

She’s floating.

Her heart skips a beat. Her mind breaks free of its tether to soar high, joining the celestial chorus of angels painted on the apartment ceiling. She doesn’t feel the sting of the needle coming out, but the bead of blood welling, holly-red, is fascinating. When she smears it across her skin with her forefinger, she’s obsessed with the way it slides into her pores, staining the fabric of her reality…

_This is my freedom. My escape._

She’s reaching for the cherubs above her when there comes a sharp series of knocks on the apartment door.

_Just in time._

Wrenched back to reality, Bedelia sets the latex band and syringe aside. When she stands, she can’t feel her legs and the floor slips and slides away from her. She isn’t concerned, though. She isn’t… anything.

The knocking comes again, louder, and more insistent. Bedelia rolls down her sleeve and then, very carefully, opens the door an inch to see who is disturbing her.

At the sight of a familiar blonde Alpha, Will Graham smirks. He’d suspected, but to have it confirmed…

He scoffs at her audacity, her _stupidity_ , and raises an eyebrow at her.

‘“Mrs. Fell”, I presume?’

Bedelia blinks, slowly and carefully, like somebody very drunk or…

At the whiff of chemicals on her skin, Will rolls his eyes at Jack.

‘She’s drugged,’ he says, and the other man gives the apartment door a confident push. Bedelia falls back a step, too dazed to stop them, and follows, swaying gently, as she invites them inside.

‘May I ask what this is about?’ she asks, seemingly grossly unashamed of her appearance. ‘Are you friends of my husband’s?’

‘Hannibal’s not your _husband_ ,’ Will growls, his darkness bubbling like acid at the idea that Hannibal might take this viper as his companion. Or worse; his lover. ‘He’s barely your captor.’

‘Where is he?’ Jack asks, cutting through the bullshit and pinning Bedelia with a furious stare.

‘I don’t know,’ Bedelia replies, allowing herself to flop down into an armchair. ‘Perhaps at work? He’s the curator for the Palazzo Capponi.’

‘We know,’ Will says, trailing his fingertips along the edge of the piano. ‘He killed Chief Inspector Pazzi there, last night.’

Jack moves to the little side table and picks up one of the little capsules, holding it to the light to inspect the fluid inside.

‘My husband is a doctor,’ Bedelia explains, her limbs loose on the armrest, struggling to focus on them. ‘He’s been treating my condition.’

‘And what condition _is_ that, _Mrs. Fell?’_ Jack asks, keeping an eye on Will as the Omega inspects the rest of the lavish apartment from his position on the other side of the chairs.

‘I get confused,’ Bedelia says, to which Will audibly snorts.

‘Oh, _please_.’ Without looking round, glaring his wrath into the dining area of the apartment – _a dining area I’ve dreamed about eating in ­_ – Will adds, ‘You need to get over yourself; whatever _self_ that is, Bedelia.’

_I remember living here… Hannibal and I had sex on that rug… Against the pillar… The kids slept in the room off the hall… How is that possible? How are we still sharing the same dreams when we’re no longer bonded?_

Bedelia sits forward, blearily insisting,

‘My name is Lydia Fell.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Will huffs a bitter chuckle and turns to face her. ‘You expect us to believe that you somehow _lost_ yourself in the _hot darkness_ of Hannibal Lecter’s mind?’ He wanders closer as he speaks, and stares down, dispassionate and disbelieving, at the drugged Alpha. ‘That Lydia Fell is some… construct?’

_Hannibal would never do that to you… He doesn’t care enough about you. And besides, if the dreams I’ve had are any indication, you were a willing accomplice to most of the murders he committed here._

Jack Crawford holds out his cell phone, showing the stupefied Alpha the screen. On it is her own photograph, her name, in big, bold letters, a description and the words “Missing Person”.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ he says, and Bedelia’s golden eyebrows crease into a frown.

‘Well,’ she mumbles, rolling her head from side to side. ‘Now I’m _really_ confused.’

Will grimaces in pain and, baring his teeth in a vicious smile, leans in close to whisper,

‘I. Don’t. _Believe._ You.’

Bedelia eyes him warily, her pupils blown wide and fixed, the irises a murky, muddy red. Will shakes his head in disgust and moves away, his shadow slithering inside, coiling and twisting, eager to strike. He wants to hurt her; strangle her, beat her. Anything to punish her for laying hands on _his_ Alpha, _his_ partner. For running away and protecting Hannibal when he should have faced justice months ago for what he did.

_He tried to kill my babies. For that, he deserves to suffer._

As Will moves away, Jack glares at the psychiatrist.

‘ _You_ are _not_ confused, Bedelia.’

Bedelia shakes her head.

‘That is not my name,’ she insists, slurring the letters. Jack snorts, but it is Will who speaks.

‘You know who you are, _and_ what you’ve done.’ He resumes pacing, the itching, irrepressible urge to move, to chase, to hunt compelling him to action. Hidden in the pockets of his suit pants, he balls his hands into white-knuckled fists. ‘And you know _exactly_ how you’re going to wiggle out of it.’ He picks up a glass vial, inspecting the liquid inside. ‘What _is_ this, hm? Sedatives? Hypnotics? Ethanol, scopolamine, midazolam…?’

‘The same cocktail Dr Lecter served Miriam Lass,’ Jack guesses, and Bedelia looks towards him again, her reality blurring at the edges until all she sees is light and color. ‘You’ve been freebasing your alibi,’ the other Alpha says, and then, surprisingly, adds, ‘And I’m not even mad at you.’ He shakes his head. ‘To tell the truth, I’m fairly impressed.’

‘Mostly because… you’re still _alive_ ,’ Will adds, barely visible, now, at the boundary of her peripheral. ‘When this fog of yours clears, I’d love to hear how you managed _that_.’

Bedelia turns her attention back to Jack; she is aware enough to know that Will has no further use for her.

‘You say my husband murdered a Chief Investigator.’ She shrugs. ‘Where is the polizia? Shouldn’t _they_ be questioning me?’

As she speaks, Will uses Jack’s distraction to slip away. He moves quietly, following a familiar path through to the master bedroom.

Their bed is there, standing proud in the middle of the room. The canopies are drawn back, the covers made. Will runs a palm along the silk-sewn quilt, his skin pebbling and a hot tingle running down his spine at the remembered feeling of Hannibal’s hands on his body. Hannibal’s lips against the nape of his neck, against his most sensitive parts… Hannibal’s length inside him, knotting together, sealing them in place as they rode out the waves of orgasm…

_It wasn’t real. None of it was real. It was just his fantasy of us._

He knows where the Alpha is. He just needs to get their first.

***

Mason’s Vicious Moray Eel glides through the water of her tank, always eyeing the glass above her for signs of movement to indicate her next feeding. A shadow falls across the surface; Margot comes to stand at the edge of the viewing circle, her hands clasped neatly before her, eyes thickly ringed with gold as she prepares to speak to her brother.

‘I’ve made new friends in Italy,’ she says,’ injecting a confidence into her voice that she never truly feels when around the Beta. No matter his current condition, she cannot forget the years of abuse.

Besides, Mason still has autonomy. He has Cordell, and Margot has seen the way the other Beta looks at her.

‘They’re cleaning up and starting over,’ she adds, thinking of the greedy, ambitious _Questura_ _di Firenze_ Chief of Police. ‘So, all _you_ need to concern yourself with now is what’ll _happen_ when Dr Lecter is in your hands.’

Mason’s eyes gleam like of blue ice.

‘You’ve worked _so_ hard to give me what I want,’ he croons, still evoking a sense of power and fear-induced authority from his place in the four-poster bed. ‘It’s only fair to talk about what _Margot_ wants.’ He pats the mattress beside him. ‘Come sit on Santa’s lap.’

Barely hiding a cringe, Margot nonetheless obeys her brother and approaches the bedridden Beta.

‘You _know_ what I want,’ she says, coming to sit on the end of the mattress, on Mason’s weakest side, where he can’t reach out and grab for her.

Mason blinks and his eyebrows drawn into something resembling a look of pity. It’s at odds, however, with the sharp, gleeful scent emanating from him, and Margot doesn’t allow the spark of hope to kindle into more than a flicker.

‘The biggest regret of my _life_ is taking away your ability to create it,’ the Beta lies, and Margot’s breath catches at the memory of the trauma.

‘Adoption is a nice thing to do,’ she says, desperately moving the conversation forwards before her emotions betray her.

Mason scowls.

‘No pedigree in buying a Chinese baby,’ he retorts. ‘They’re cheaper than shoats.’ He clicks his tongue and, ignoring Margot’s flat, carefully schooled look of neutrality, continues, ‘I wish I could give you a _Verger_ baby. Our _own_ baby, yours and mine. We could raise it together.’

Margot rolls her eyes.

‘The last time you said you wanted to have a baby,’ she reminds him, ‘you removed my uterus.’

‘In my defense,’ Mason protests, ‘you _weaponized_ your uterus! You shouldn’t have been waving it around like a loaded pistol!’

‘I brought it on myself,’ Margot drawls, lifting her blazing golden eyes to the ceiling to hide the true depth of her fury and hatred towards her brother. Her Guardian. Her legal owner, for all intents and purposes.

‘As you so often _do, Margot_ ,’ Mason agrees, ignoring his sister’s sarcasm. When Margot frowns at him, he adds, ‘But there’s the possibility that I’m still packing _loads_ of viable sperm.’ He quirks an eyebrow; the closest approximation his deformed face can get to a leer these days. ‘Stumbled across any _viable uteruses_ lately, hm…?’

They both think of Dr Bloom, and Margot realizes, too late again, that her brother hasn’t missed the looks shared between her and the newly-presented Alpha.

_He wants me to seduce Alana… So she will carry his child…_

‘What are you up to, Mason?’ she asks, but her brother just quirks an eyebrow in lieu of a dismissive shrug.

‘I want us to have a _baby_ , Margot,’ the Verger heir says. ‘I could be really good to a child. I could take parenting classes…’

Margot thinks of the dozens of lawsuits, buried or mysteriously dropped, against her brother, for his inappropriate behavior towards children of the state… She can’t think of anyone less suited to being a father.

Even Dr Lecter would be a better parent than Mason.

‘Let’s find a way, Margot.’ Mason turns his baby-blues on his sister, appealing to her gentle, sensitive Omegan nature. ‘Let’s find a way to be a _family_ again.’

***

 _I wish I was here under different circumstances,_ Will thinks, limping across the palazzo towards the Uffizi Gallery. _With Hannibal and the twins, visiting Florence as a family._

Not to kill his former Alpha.

He knows Hannibal is here. And he knows exactly _where_ in the gallery he is.

On the third floor, where the still air is cool against his sore skin, Hannibal indulges himself in storing one last memory. He sits on the padded leather bench before _La Primavera_ , his sketchbook open on his lap, pencil skating across the thick parchment paper to perfectly recreate the art in his own image.

The nymph, her hair flowing, a garland of flowers held in her mouth… Pale Zephyrus chasing her… Their faces are ones he knows. Bedelia and his own Omega.

_Will._

He knows he’s there before the scent reaches him. He’s always known when Will is in the room with him. The air itself stands still, as if reality holds its breath in anticipation for the wicked delights concocted by his beloved’s dark mind.

_Hannibal._

It’s really him. After all this time; all these long, lonely months…

Will enters the antechamber of the Renaissance Master’s room and the world grinds to a halt. His heart stutters, slows and then skips a beat before pounding against the cage of his ribs. He smells antiseptic, chamomile and jasmine from the bath oils, and, very faintly, fresh blood from cuts not yet scabbed.

The Alpha sits before the Primavera, as casual as any tourist. But the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness of his back, belies the truth of his wounded state.

Will wants to grab him into a hug, to bury his nose in the crook of Hannibal’s neck and never let him go. Drag his hands through ashen hair and plunder his mouthy until those lips are no longer thin and cruel but red and swollen with affection.

At the same time, he wants to hurt him. He wants so badly to drive a knife through the twisted black heart inside the man who murdered Abigail. The Alpha who Bonded him, betrayed him… Who Cut him and left him to die.

_The man who tried to murder my children._

It’s a heady mix, simmering beneath an all-encompassing sense of finality. Of completion. Will moves closer, giving Hannibal time to sense him. Giving him warning and a chance to look up before he takes a seat on the bench beside him.

They’re together again. At last. And whatever happens now, they’ll face it together.

Hannibal raises his eyes to the Omega, curious as to the innumerable emotions he senses within his mind. His physical response is acute; his pulse has quickened, his senses heightened, his muscles bunched in anticipation of a fight or a need to protect his Omega.

But Will is no longer _his_ Omega. The change in his beloved’s scent confirms that. Where Will had once carried his smoky, cedarwood tang, now there is only salt and woods. Will’s scent is not the sweet innocence it once was, but it is fresher than any bonded Omega’s could ever be.

_Wiped clean by a single cut. All of our time together, erased._

But not forgotten.

Will lowers himself to the seat with a pained sigh. His face is a mess of cuts and bruises; his eyebrow is swollen and he holds himself with the carefulness of a man nursing broken ribs. Hannibal watches him carefully, drinking in the sight of him, and he does nothing to keep the smile from tugging at his mouth.

 _I still love you_ , he thinks, basking in the aesthetic beauty of the creature before him. _I will cherish that, if nothing else._

Will glances at Hannibal and then at the painting, humming a soft sound of approval. He’s only seen it in Hannibal’s memory and on a postcard but the real thing is exquisite. He understands why the Alpha wants to recreate this in his Memory Palace.

 _I’m so glad you’re here,_ Hannibal thinks, a sharp ache near-splitting his heart in two. _I wish you’d come with me sooner._

He cannot begin to express the true depth of his feelings – he can barely comprehend the startling sense of regret he feels at what he did to this perfect man – but he wants Will to know a little of his affection.

‘If I saw you every day, forever, Will…’ He looks again, marveling at the creation beside him. ‘I would remember this time.’

_Because you came to find me. And I let you._

Will looks up again and chuckles. For Hannibal, that was as much a declaration of love as a knife to the Crest.

 _You’re just too damaged to be in a relationship,_ he thinks, his gaze softening as he takes in the state of the other man’s wounds. _You’re too dangerous to be allowed to live free. And I can’t have you loose out there in the world. But I can’t stand to think of you caged._

‘Strange,’ he murmurs, feeling his irises prickle gold in response to the Alphan red staring back at him. ‘Seeing you here in front of me…’ He swallows and frowns, shaking his head at his own folly. ‘I’ve been staring at after-images of you in places you haven’t been in years.’

He returns to staring at the Primavera, worried he’ll do something rash if he doesn’t tear his gaze away.

Hannibal mimics him, tapping his finger on the abandoned drawing as he says, softly,

‘“To market, to market, to buy a fat pig. Home again, home again… Jiggity jig”.’

Pain slices through Will’s abdomen, leaving his scar tingling as much as the smooth skin on the nape of his neck.

 _Home_.

He’s never felt as at home as he did when he was with Hannibal. What _is_ home, really? A building? A city? Or a person with whom to share a life?

_My home is with my children. It has to be. He made that choice for us._

It doesn’t help that he can imagine Hannibal singing the same nursery rhyme to Danny or Gracie…

_He killed Inspector Pazzi. He killed an Omega. I can’t trust him to keep our family safe._

Raising his eyes to the ceiling, he speaks in a voice so low it’s barely more than a whisper.

‘I looked up at the night sky there. Orion above the horizon and, near it, Jupiter.’ He sighs. ‘I wondered if you could see it, too. I wondered if our stars were the same.’

Hannibal smiles again, glancing at his former mate and then back at the Botticelli.

‘I believe some of our stars will always be the same,’ he replies. ‘You entered the foyer of my mind and stumbled down the hall of my beginnings.’

‘I wanted to understand you,’ Will says, throat tight around a lump. ‘… Before I laid eyes on you again. I needed it to be… clear. What I was seeing.’

_A boy. Broken by what rabid Alphas did to him. A man too far removed from his mental illness to ever be a father. To ever be a good mate._

_A wild beast, that needs to be put down._

_No matter how much I still love him._

Hannibal studies Will, even as Will pours his emotion into his eyes. The conflict. The terror. The hurt and the lingering love.

But Will cannot forgive him. Will understands, but his understanding his led to pity, not acceptance.

_I forgive you, Will._

‘Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?’ he asks, thinking of the night Mischa died. The night Abigail died.

The night their baby died.

‘Mine?’ Will shakes his head. ‘Before _you_ and after _you_.’ He dips his head closer. ‘Yours?’ He shrugs and looks away. ‘It’s all starting to blur.’ He snorts softly. ‘Mischa? Abigail…? Chiyoh?’

Hannibal will always relive what was done to her. With every kill, every bite, he keeps Mischa’s memory alive. And that means he never moves out of the past. He keeps the cycle of pain alive, trapping remnants of his dead sister in anyone else he cares about.

_You’d do the same to our children. I can’t allow that._

Hannibal is quiet, considering the damning conclusion his former Omega has come to. Then, before the serpent can unwind from its cavern deep inside the recesses of his mind, slithering to the surface to threaten the stability he so desperately needs, he says, casually,

‘How _is_ Chiyoh?’

The distraction works. The waters are once again still and calm, hiding the monster resting in the depths, and Will lifts one shoulder in a thoughtful hum before replying,

‘She pushed me off a train.’

Hannibal snorts. She always was feisty. And deeply protective of him.

‘Atta girl,’ he murmurs, and Will chuckles before grief cuts it off in a sharp stab. He clenches his teeth and screws his eyes tight shut, working hard to keep tears from spilling. Focusing on breathing through the cramps slicing his gut to shreds, he only speaks when he thinks his voice won’t wobble.

‘ _You_ and _I_ have… begun to blur,’ he whispers, hating the confession but needing the truth to be known.

_The bond may be severed, but what we shared is so much deeper than biology._

Hannibal smiles, and lowers his gaze to the drawing of his beloved on the paper before him.

‘Isn’t that how you found me?’ he replies, thinking of his own dreams of Will. The pervasive need for his companion to be the Omega, not Bedelia. His instinctive knowledge of Will’s location, true as the needle of a compass.

Will swallows, his face etched with suffering.

‘Even as the _possibility_ of free will dissipates,’ he says, ‘my experience of it remains the same. I continue to _feel_ and _act_ as though I have it.’

Hannibal lifts one shoulder in a small shrug.

‘The worm that destroys you is the temptation to agree with your critics, to get their approval,’ he says, and Will visibly shivers before replying, broken,

‘Every crime of yours… feels like one _I’m_ guilty of.’ The Omega ducks his head, glancing up through his lashes to see if the Alpha is angry or disappointed in him. ‘Not just Abigail’s murder… _Every_ murder. Stretching backward and forward in time.’

_We were Pair Bonded. I no longer ended where you began. We were two halves of the same whole but now…? I’m not even that._

Hannibal studies Will, hating the pain and confusion on the younger man’s face. Will is erotic when he is suffering, true, but this is beyond pain. This is the dissolution of his mind and Hannibal cannot tolerate that.

_I will help you, Will. You cannot live with what I’ve done to you._

‘Freeing yourself from me and… _me_ freeing myself from _you_ … They’re the same.’

_One of us has to die._

Will manages a weak smile, his golden eyes dull with exhaustion.

‘We were _Pair Bonded_ ,’ he says, sighing again before adding, ‘I’m curious if either of us can… _survive_ separation…?’

Perhaps they are simply delaying the inevitable. Perhaps they both died that night in the kitchen, when Hannibal took a knife to Will’s crest.

Hannibal’s eyes flicker crimson and then fade to maroon, his own mind pondering the same thing. This close, there are no edges to their thoughts; one flows to the other in an eternal stream of consciousness, carrying emotions too tangled to understand, too jarring to acknowledge.

‘Now is the hardest test,’ he murmurs, wanting desperately to take Will’s hand between his own. To hold him close again, as he did before, he kiss away the pain. ‘Not letting rage and frustration, nor _forgiveness_ , keep you from thinking.’

The reminder is poignant, and more for himself than Will. He must _think_ his way through this, if he is to survive.

If he surrenders to his emotions, then Will has won and he will be killed.

_I’m sorry, mylimasis. I’ve come too far to let you destroy me._

At the Alpha’s words, Will feels a rush of certainty. He has no idea if it comes from himself or the other man, but it strengthens his resolve. Hannibal knows why he is here; he knows the threat Will poses, and still he supports his decision.

They will try to kill each other. Whoever can think more clearly will win.

It’s time.

Hannibal closes the sketchbook and gets to his feet, hiding most of his weakness. He doesn’t want to give Will an advantage; the Omega is dangerous, and he must remain on guard.

‘Shall we?’ he asks, waiting for his partner without offering him his hand. Their accord is over, after all. They’ve said their goodbyes. Whatever happens now, it’s every man for himself.

Will gets to his feet, hating the stiffness of his torn, tender muscles. He smells Hannibal’s scent thicken, tinged with the heavy musk of Rut, and his own pulse quickens in response.

Their peace is done. Hannibal will kill him… Unless he gets the blade in first.

‘After _you_ ,’ he says, daring the Alpha to turn his back on him. To lead the way to his own death, just as he has led so many victims to their graves.

Hannibal smiles, knowing what Will is doing. It doesn’t matter. What he needs isn’t here. And Will won’t attack until they’re outside.

His knows his Omega better than Will knows himself.

He leads the way, limping as little as he can, Will falling into place at his side. They attract the odd look; two bruised, beaten men leaving an art gallery, but the nuns in their starched white veils merely incline their heads towards the Alpha and his presumed Omega. The street vendors at their carts don’t pay them any attention, and soon they are crossing the cobbled square of the palazzo, headed for the city, savoring the cool evening air.

High above, nestled amongst the terracotta tiles of the apartment buildings surrounding the square, Chiyoh readies her gun. She keeps the scope trained on the two men approaching below, the crosshairs sliding across Hannibal’s battered face to focus on Will’s.

She won’t allow him to kill her Guardian. He’s the only Alpha she’s ever cared for.

She sees the moment they both pull a Harpy knife from their pockets. Their movements are eerily synchronized; precise and equal.

She sees when Will tenses to strike.

One squeeze on the trigger and the bullet leaves the silencer before Will can even raise his arm.

_Now._

Will feels the moment when the line of fate pulls taut. He dips his hand into his right pocket, fingers closing around the handle of the blade, pulling it free, ready to strike.

There’s a thwap of air, lifting his hair back from his face. Then an impact, like a boulder against his shoulder. The pain comes only when he lands on his back, knocked from his feet by the force of the shot.

On the rooftop, Chiyoh sighs at what she had to do to her fellow Omega. She unscrews the silencer of the rifle and begins to pack it away, ready for the next message from Hannibal.

She’ll leave Will to the mercy of his Alpha.

***

Sex as an Alpha is completely different than as a Beta.

As Alana pins Margot up against the bedroom wall, she realizes just _how_ much she’s changed since the attack altered her physiology. She wraps her hands around the Omega’s wrists, holding her arms to either side of her head and slides her knee between the other woman’s legs, forcing them apart so she can rock against the heat above her thighs.

Margot whimpers, tilting her chin up and to the side in submission. At the sight of a pale throat, throbbing with a wild pulse and smelling so sweetly of Omega scent, Alana hears her own snarl as she buries her face in the soft skin.

‘Are you sure you want this?’ she whispers, nibbling a trail of goosebumps across the younger woman’s neck, across her jaw until she can kiss her lips again. ‘We’re not moving too fast?’

‘Not fast enough,’ Margot replies, arching her spine to press her breasts against Alana’s. There are too many clothes separating their bodies; she may never experience Heat again, since Mason rendered her infertile, but she still has a sex drive and she’s been seducing the Alpha since she got here.

‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ Alana admits, releasing Margot’s wrists to fumble at the silk belt of her dress. ‘Not since…’

‘Your body knows what to do,’ Margot promises, her own fingers unbuttoning Alana’s blouse and pushing it, still trapped inside the suit jacket, off her shoulders. ‘And so do I.’

‘You’ve…?’ Alana loses her train of thought and feels her eyes prickle red as Margot’s slim body is revealed from beneath the dress. The Omega’s stomach is toned and flat, smooth but for the scars littering her sides. The worst is the smile across her belly; evidence of the hysterectomy.

‘Once,’ Margot says, reaching for Alana’s zipper. ‘She was a Beta. We were going to run away together but…’ She lets the sentence drift away, not wanting to revisit old memories. Mason’s jealousy had been nothing compared to her father’s fury at a low-bred Beta _nobody_ fucking his daughter. Polluting her and daring to make her feel like a person. Someone of value.

‘Come here,’ Alana says, gathering the trembling Omega in her arms. She holds Margot close, drawing her in for a long, hungry kiss. By the time they part again their eyes are bright, their cheeks flushed and minds focused.

Margot drapes her dress over the back of a chair and kicks off her stilettos. Without the six-inch heels she’s much shorter than the Alpha, especially since Alana has yet to remove her heels. She tilts her head up again, purring soft encouragement as warm hands cup the padded front of her bra, gently massaging the breasts inside before slipping around to unclasp the strap at the back.

‘I’ve wanted you since the day we met,’ Alana breathes, dipping her head to kiss each of Margot’s pert brown nipples. ‘You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.’

‘You should have seen me before,’ Margot jokes, and Alana frowns before kissing her again. She kicks off her own shoes, losing a couple of inches but still taller, and shimmies out of her pants, kicking them away to stand in only her underwear.

‘You’re perfect,’ she says, crimson eyes locked onto gold. ‘Just as you are now.’

Margot’s cheeks flush a beautiful shade of pink and Alana grins. She maneuvers them until Margot’s knees are against the edge of the bed and then pushes, adrenaline surging through her as the Omega falls willingly to spread before her.

‘I want to taste you,’ Alana adds, licking her lips as she takes in every inch of the prone, willing body beneath her. ‘All of you.’

‘Don’t bite,’ Margot warns, but there’s no strength to her voice. ‘Mason won’t let you Bond me.’

Alana crawls onto the bed to kneel over her, both protective and possessive. She nudges Margot’s jaw up, nuzzling her throat again, and purrs to reassure before growling,

‘ _Mason_ can’t stop me doing _anything_.’

Margot shivers, pulling her knees up and splaying her thighs as wide apart as she can. She arches again, a universal sign of eager surrender, and wraps her arms around Alana’s shoulders, hugging her as close as they can get.

‘But I’ll only do what _you_ want me to do,’ Alana promises, and resumes kissing the purring Omega. She can feel the ache between her legs, stronger than ever before, and she rocks her hips more than she ever used to. Hooking a finger under the waistband of Margot’s panties, she drags them down until the Omega helps kick them off and then covers the blazing heat of her with the flat of her palm.

Margot whimpers softly, her slick-sweet scent rising between them. Alana’s musk is thicker, richer, since the change; she carries a scent of roses and something deeper, more primal. She’s a wild blossom, sharp with thorns.

Alana rubs the hot wetness of the Omega, gently at first and then applying a little more pressure. Margot responds with another shiver and a playful moan, hands dropping to the lacy bra hiding fuller Alpha breasts from her.

‘May I?’ Margot asks, already moving the fabric aside to cup the heavy flesh. She circles the nipple, pinching gently, and pleasure zings down Alana’s body, stoking the fire in her groin.

‘May _I?’_ the Alpha replies, lining up her fingers but waiting for permission. As soon as Margot nods she slides them inside her body, crooking the knuckles and rubbing against the smooth flesh, pulling down until she feels the telltale ridges of increasing pleasure.

‘ _Ohhh_ …’ Margot’s eyes flutter shut and she bucks into the touch, chasing the first sparks of something better. Something she hasn’t felt in a very long time. ‘Oh, you’re _good_ at that.’

‘Touch me,’ Alana says, adjusting her weight so her hips are higher, giving Margot room to slide her arm down between them. ‘Feel how wet you make me.’

‘Why, Dr Bloom, I didn’t know you were so crude,’ Margot teases, gasping a breathless chuckle at the waves of arousal sweeping through her with every stroke of confident fingers. They kiss again, sharing breath and spit, and she snakes her hand down until she feels the damp silk of Alana’s knickers. The Alpha rolls her hips again, thrusting into the touch, and Margot gets her thumb against the sensitive hood of her clit, adding an extra zing with every rock.

‘When I come,’ Alana says, speaking between sucking livid bruises into Margot’s throat, ‘I’m going to want to bite you. You need to stay on your back if you don’t want me to Bond you.’

Margot nods and latches her own teeth into Alana’s neck, ignoring the tumbling brown curls covering her face. She suckles hard but lets go when the Alpha pulls back, grinning up with bloody teeth at the ring of dents in the blushing flesh.

‘I wanted to taste you, too,’ she says, her honeyed eyes sparkling. Alana narrows her own, irises blazing red, and then dominates her with another kiss, fingers pumping in and out of her fast now, building a rapid rhythm that has Margot bucking up into the movement, frantic for more.

‘Touch yourself,’ the Alpha orders, and Margot is quick to obey, rubbing circles on her clit with her free hand. Alana continues to fuck her fast with her fingers, her own hips grinding at the same speed, and Margot growls her frustration at the silk still between her hand and the other woman’s most intimate part.

‘I want to be inside you,’ she begs, hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead, chest heaving and a blush spreading across her collarbones as climax draws near. ‘God, Alana, _please!’_

Alana snarls, furious at the distraction. She pulls her fingers out, just for a moment, and grabs her panties at the side, wrenching hard enough to tear the seams.

‘In,’ she growls, and they both plunge their fingers inside each other’s body at the same time. Shudders bring them closer, hair mixing in two shades of brown, red eyes fixed on gold, the air between their mouths growing hot and damp as they pant their way towards completion.

‘There,’ Margot whispers, grinding down and then up against the Alpha’s fingers, her muscles tightening as she prepares to come. ‘There, _there_ , there…!’

‘I’m coming,’ Alana gasps, and she bears down, hard, against Margot’s fingers, spilling wet into the cup of her palm. ‘Move your hand.’

She pulls out of the Omega again, ignoring the frantic cry as she interrupts the building crescendo. Scooping the wetness from Margot’s hand, she coats her fingers in the pearly fluid and then enters her partner again, fucking her hard and fast until Margot peaks.

The Omega jerks, her whole body going rigid with climax. Alana fucks through the vice-like muscles locking her hand in place, pushing her seed as deep inside the Omega as she can. It doesn’t matter than Margot is barren; her instincts demand that she fills her, and she forms a seal with the rest of her palm as Margot’s muscles lock them in place, a wobbling cry wrenched from the Omega’s throat at the intensity of the second orgasm.

‘ _Mine_ ,’ Alana snarls, and then she strikes. She bites down, hard, into the side of Margot’s neck, her fangs sinking deep. Margot convulses, tears flowing and voice breaking at the third and final climax, her thighs snapping shut around Alana’s arm and hip, hugging her close.

‘Yours,’ she promises, kissing her blood from the Alpha’s lips as soon as Alana is done claiming her. It’s not a Bond, not yet, but it’s a mark of ownership and she loves it.

***

They spend the rest of the morning in bed together, and by the time they’ve finished making love, Margot’s neck is collared with Alana’s bitemarks.

They redress separately, though Alana watches Margot closely as the Omega shrugs back into her wraparound dress. There’s a possessive gleam in her eyes, an appreciative smile on her freshly painted lips, and Margot ducks her chin with a demure, pleased little grin.

It’s nice being the object of an Alpha’s undivided attention.

‘Owing to eighteen months of relentless effort, access to confidential federal files, no international restrictions and large expenditures of money, Mason’s ahead of the FBI in the pursuit of Hannibal Lecter,’ Alana says, returning to their earlier conversation, which they had abandoned in favor of more pleasurable activities.

Margot rolls her eyes.

‘Mason has no _intention_ of ever sharing his lead with the FBI,’ she replies, fumbling with the belt to secure her dress.

Alana rises and comes to help, saying, as she does,

‘I do… Once he has Hannibal.’

Margot smiles, enjoying the little ways in which Alana cares for her.

‘There’s something I need to get from Mason before he goes to prison,’ she says, and she feels Alana’s grip tighten on her belt at her brother’s mention, right before the Alpha deliberately tightens the bow and steps away.

Looking over her shoulder at the woman certain to Bond her, Margot adds, innocently,

‘Any experience harvesting sperm?’

_We’ll be a family. You, me and our baby. But Mason isn’t a part of that. He never was, and he never will be._

***

In Florence, Inspector Benetti considers the drugged, vulnerable Alpha before him. Lydia Fell sits, balancing with an arm on the table, in a dining chair whilst the _polizia_ search the apartment. They are all his officers, and have recently been handsomely rewarded for their loyalty.

Mason Verger’s lawyer in Geneva has ensured a smooth wireless transaction of several million US dollars to each account, in return for the swift, silent apprehension of Dr Fell.

They will do everything they can to ensure the bounty is collected before nightfall. This woman is the key to locating him. Inspector Benetti will do whatever it takes to make her talk.

Just as soon as he removes Jack Crawford, former Head of the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI.

‘We cannot locate Dr Fell,’ he says, speaking before turning. When he does glance back at her, his eyes are thickly ringed with red and his expression is cold. ‘Close attention has been brought to bear on him.’ He moves closer, deceptively casual with a hand in his pocket, though his fist is closed around a knife, ready to use if he must. ‘We have eyewitness accounts of a bloody figure, matching his description, running from the scene.’

He looks through the doorway to the bathroom, where two officers are taking blood samples from the edge of the ornate tub and the soiled bandages in the bin.

‘The Italian public have already decided _Il Mostro_ killed Rinaldo Pazzi.’ He chuckles softly. ‘A twenty-year-old-debt, finally paid.’

Jack looks up at the smooth, uncaring Alpha. He immediately dislikes him, and more so now for the callous way he refers to Pazzi’s murder.

‘The Italian public is right,’ he says, to which Inspector Benetti narrows his eyes.

‘ _Il Mostro_ died in prison,’ the other Alpha says, and Jack looks away, knowing there’s no use arguing with him.

He’s nothing more than a pawn for Mason Verger. He has no desire to see justice done in the eyes of the law.

‘Il Commendator Pazzi had been assigned to investigate to investigate the disappearance of two men from the Palazzo Capponi.’

Bedelia nods, feigning a naïve desire to assist the inspector.

‘My husband knew Professor Sogliato,’ she says, glancing at Jack as if seeking assurance. ‘We were at his home many times.’

Jack narrows his eyes at her, but he says nothing. He vowed not to reveal her true identity, after all; in exchange for Hannibal Lecter’s whereabouts. Now, he just needs to get out of this farcical interrogation so he can get to Lecter before Will does.

‘We believe your husband was responsible for the disappearances, and _murdered_ Pazzi when he came to same conclusion,’ Inspector Benetti says, and Bedelia lifts a hand to her mouth in numb shock.

‘If you haven’t already,’ Jack says, speaking directly to the police officer, ‘access the ViCAP database at Quantico. You’ll find Dr Fell on the “Most Wanted” page under the name of Hannibal Lecter.’ He ignores Bedelia, who continues to act, very unconvincingly, in his estimation, like this is all terrible news to her. ‘The fingerprints you’ll pull from Pazzi’s noose will be his.’

Inspector Benetti looks at Jack, narrowing his eyes with a knowing gleam.

‘If you knew Dr Fell to be Hannibal Lecter,’ he says, tilting his head as if wondering, ‘why didn’t _you_ bring it to the attention of the Questura?’

‘He had a price on his head,’ Jack replies, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. ‘Pazzi knew about it; tried to sell him. That kind of money… I can’t blame him.’ He tilts his own head, quirking an eyebrow. ‘Can _you?’_

The look speaks volumes. Jack knows the Inspector is dirty, and Inspector Benetti knows that Jack knows.

They also both know there’s no proof, and no time to dance around the issue. Hannibal is already too close to slipping away.

The Inspector grits his teeth into an uncomfortable smile.

‘You’ve already been questioned regarding Rinaldo Pazzi’s murder,’ he says, making it abundantly clear from his tone that their discussion is over. ‘ _Signor_ Crawford. Since you’re not in Florence on official FBI business, that will be all.’

Jack waits, just a beat; a show of dominance over Inspector Benetti. Then, knowing he has no grounds to remain, and truly desperate to track down his errant Omegan companion, he gets to his feet.

Bedelia rises with him, but Inspector Benetti shakes his head at her.

‘Not you, Signora Fell.’ He smirks, and makes a show of removing his coat. ‘You stay _right_ where you are.’ He sits down in the chair opposite her, and smiles coolly as Bedelia watches Jack exit the apartment, leaving her to her fate. ‘I have _so_ many questions for you.’

***

When Will is shot, Hannibal’s first instinct is to cover him from further gunfire. It’s animalistic; a basic Alphan urge to protect an Omega.

 _His_ Omega.

But Will isn’t _his_ Omega anymore, and he viciously quells the desire in favor of scooping the other man up and helping him back to his feet. _isHisHis_

He needs to get Will somewhere private, quickly, before anyone notices what has happened.

‘Come on,’ he says, leaning down to collect both the fallen blade and the Omega. ‘Up you get.’

‘Wha’…? W’happened?’

Will is in shock, rapidly losing focus and strength. He’s in no position to fight, or flee, Hannibal holds him around the waist, draping Will’s arm around his shoulders, lending him his own strength.

‘Let’s get you cleaned up,’ he says, mouthing the word “Heat” to a passerby, who looks over in concerned confusion. It has the desired effect; the curious Beta blushes and turns away, not wanting to intrude on such a private moment between what he assumes is a bonded pair.

Hannibal takes the lead, pulling Will mercilessly through narrow back streets into the heart of the city. With every step, the bullet jostles the nerves in Will’s shoulder and agony rips through him. Sweat pours down his face and he bites his lower lip until he tastes copper, hating how much he needs Hannibal to remain upright.

‘Where are we going?’ he gasps, desperate to stop but unable to make Hannibal even slow. ‘Hannibal… Talk to me.’

‘Somewhere safe,’ Hannibal says, driving them on as the light fades and streetlamps flicker to life. ‘Somewhere private.’

 _That’s not safe,_ Will thinks, dragging his feet in a last bid to halt the Alpha. _Not for me._

‘Nearly there,’ Hannibal says, jostling him just enough to make Will shudder in pain and forget about slowing down. ‘You’re doing fine, Will.’

He all but carries Will into the brass cage elevator of the apartment building, refusing to let go as they trundle up to the fourth floor. It is only once they are inside, and the front door is locked behind them, that he loosens his grip.

‘Here we go,’ he says, easing the other man down onto the couch. ‘Rest a moment.’

He leaves to remove his coat, fetch medical supplies and a glass of water, which Will gulps the moment the glass touches his lips. Blood has soaked through the Omega’s jacket, darkening the fabric to black, and Hannibal has smears of red across his palm and face from touching him.

‘This is going to hurt,’ Hannibal warns, kneeling before him. ‘But the bullet is still inside you.’

He moves quickly and deliberately, pushing Will’s jacket off his shoulders and down to his elbow. The movement wrenches a cry of pain from the Omega and Will can’t help but fall forwards, dizzy with the pulsing fire in his torso. Hannibal, to his horror, holds him close and, whether out of habit or maliciously, gives the nape of his neck a comforting squeeze.

The movement paralyzes and calms him, releasing a flood of endorphins strong enough to bring tears to his eyes and dull the pain of the gunshot.

At the rush of sugar-sweet pheromones from his former mate, Hannibal grimaces at his own idiocy and moves his palm to squeeze and rub Will’s shoulder instead. His throat is clogged and there’s a sharply uncomfortable pain in his gut at how _smooth_ Will’s neck is.

 _There isn’t even a scar where I cut the crest off,_ he thinks, hating the Omegan biology hiding any evidence of their relationship. _Nothing physical, at least._

Like so many of Will’s scars, the lingering evidence is in his mind. A shattered psyche, prone to dreams that feel real.

Will buries his damp face in Hannibal’s neck, hating the tears trickling down his cheeks. He hates how much he’s _missed_ the feeling of the Alpha’s hands on him, even when hurting him, and he _loathes_ the rush of calm as his body is tricked into trusting the other man.

Hannibal guides Will to sit back against the cushions and, as he reaches for a pair of scissors to cit away the stained shirt, explains,

‘Chiyoh has always been very protective of me.’ At Will’s breathless, humorless chuckle, he glances up. ‘Did she kill her tenant? Or did you?’

‘She… she did,’ Will manages, his breathing labored. The effect of the nuchal manipulation is wearing off and the pain is cold and bright, overwhelming him. It hurts more than the time Jack shot him because he’s vulnerable in front of _Hannibal_ again. The last time that happened, the last time he was wounded in the Alpha’s presence, he almost lost his children.

‘Excellent.’ Hannibal smiles, proud of his protégé, and inspects the wound he has revealed. Then, after setting the scissors back on the tray of supplies, he presses the Harpy knife back into Will’s hand.

Will smells his own spike of fear; salty and acidic. He looks down at the blade, the evidence of his second intent to betray his Alpha, and then at Hannibal, and the Alpha’s ruby eyes glitter with a heady mix of cold indifference and blistering pride.

‘You dropped your forgiveness, Will,’ the Alpha says, and Will knows, if there was any doubt before, that he’s going to die tonight.

Hannibal’s going to eat him and there’s _nothing_ he can do about it.

Maybe there never was.

‘You forgive how God forgives,’ Hannibal continues, smiling at his beloved, seeing without watching as Will tries to force his numb fingers to close around the blade; tries to force his broken nerves to respond so he can strike before it’s too late. ‘Would you have done it quickly?’ he asks, tilting his head curiously. ‘Or would you have stopped to gloat?’

‘Does God gloat?’ Will hisses, vicious as panic rises like a tsunami within him. He watches as Hannibal smiles, one last time, and then the Alpha picks up a large syringe. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want it, and shakes his head as desperate begging erupts from his lips. ‘No, no, no, _no_ …’

Ignoring the Omega’s pleas, Hannibal injects the sedative into Will’s armpit, straight into an artery. If Will still had his crest then a clamp would have been more effective, but without the raised scar tissue on the back of the neck the hinges won’t work as well, and he won’t risk Will struggling. He needs him to be still for what he’s about to do.

The drug takes effect in moments. Will feels his head swim, as if he’s been sucked under by a riptide, and he loses the feeling in his limbs. The knife slips from his unresponsive hand, caught and put away by the Alpha.

As Hannibal adjusts him to sink further back into the couch cushions, he leans closer and gazes, almost lovingly, into his eyes.

‘Give that a moment.’

 _Please,_ Will thinks, even as darkness crowds the edges of his vision, tugging him down into its deadly embrace. _Please let me wake up from this. One last time._

***

The bridge between their minds is a shadow, twisting and turning like black ink against a sea of white. It spills down, viscous as blood, smooth as smoke, to form antlers.

_A great crown for the king of beasts._

Slowly, as if struggling to obey a command, the darkness becomes Will. The embodiment of his mind; his internal representation.

He wears one of the silk-lined, Omegan cut suits that Hannibal bought for him. His hair is combed back and his expression is cool. He looks… dangerous. Subtly powerful and in control.

After bringing a glass of wine to his mouth, taking a slow, luxurious sip, he hears his own voice, echoing across the void between their minds.

‘I can almost taste the butter.’

His form intermingles with Hannibal; their heads conjoined as the darkness bleeds from one brain to the next. They are two halves of the same whole; no matter how far they run, or how hard they try to cut out the parts that make them bonded, on some level they will always be together.

‘Taste and smell are the oldest senses,’ Hannibal replies, and Will can hear the Alpha’s voice by his ear, as real as if he were actually speaking in the room with him. ‘And the closest to the center of the mind.’

_It’s not possible. I’m dead. He killed me… didn’t he?_

The dreamscape fades and Will becomes aware that there _is_ butter melting before him, sizzling across an iron skillet on a small burner before him.

Returning to consciousness is an effort, like trudging through mud. The sedative is slow to wear off, dragging at his senses and dulling his thoughts until they blur as much as his mind’s eye did with Hannibal.

‘Parts that precede pity and morality,’ he says, but it’s not _him_ saying it. Not really. It’s his voice, echoing in the scaffolded chambers of his burgeoning Memory Palace, but they are Hannibal’s words. _His_ thoughts brought to life inside his brain.

_You didn’t cut that part out of me, can you?_

The room returns to white again; a blank canvas on which to paint a picture of domestic bliss. Will, sitting at the head of the table, the honored guest and Hannibal; neatly dressed in a white suit, serving him.

_This could have been our life. Our reality._

‘They play in the dome of our skulls,’ the Alpha says, adding seasoning to a porcelain bowl of sauce. ‘Like miracles, illuminated on a church ceiling.’ He smiles down at his mate, eyes warming to red as he admires the Omega before him. ‘The ceremonies and sights, and exchanges of dinner, can be _far_ more engaging than theatre.’

As he approaches, his façade darkens and the wendigo takes his place. Blank, soulless white eyes rip into Will’s soul, icy tendrils reaching through his chest and squeezing his heart until it withers. Will shivers, fear sliding down his spine, numbing everything from the throat down and filling him with a keen sense that things are about to get much, much worse.

‘What’s for dinner?’ he whispers, suspended in shadow above the wendigo’s head; one branch of the razor antlers curving above its skull.

Hannibal, forming the other antler, his equal and partner in all things, smiles knowingly.

‘Never ask,’ he advises, his eyes red as blood on snow. ‘It spoils the surprise.’

_What surprise? What’s happening…?_

Opening his eyes is a challenge. Will feels as thought his eyelids are weighed down, fighting against his every effort to raise them. He stares at the table set for three before him, his vision blurred. He can’t focus on anything and, when he tries to look around, his eyes don’t follow the movement in time, causing a delay.

Where’s Hannibal? He’s sure he’s here; he can still smell his scent, lingering in the air beside his head.

He tries to move but nothing responds. There’s a terrifying numbness to his limbs, his torso… even his head… He’s propped in the chair like a puppet whose strings have been cut and any movement could topple him.

_Paralyzed… I’ve been paralyzed… Did he break my neck or just drug me?_

Slowly, fading in and out of reality, Hannibal reappears, returning from the kitchen carrying a serving bowl. He sets it on the table beside Will’s plate and, aware that the Omega is tilting and about to fall, steadies him by wrapping a thick belt around his waist, securing him to the back of the chair.

Then, taking the chair beside him, he takes a moment to consider his Omega, committing every detail of his face to memory, one last time.

As Will watches Hannibal watching him, he remembers what he said to the Alpha earlier.

 _We’re conjoined_.

Their faces blur, shift and then he’s staring into his own reflection. He _is_ Hannibal, wearing the same black turtleneck sweater as the Alpha, with the same cold, dangerous glint to his eye…

_I know what you’re going to do. I understand. You want to keep me with you, always, but we can’t both survive this encounter, and the winner takes all._

This is the only way Hannibal knows how to honor him.

How to love him.

‘I don’t indulge much in regret but…’ Hannibal sighs, clasping his hands on the table before him. ‘I am sorry to be leaving Italy.’

_To be losing you, my beloved._

‘There are things in the Palazzo Capponi I would have liked to read.’ As he speaks, he dips a spoon into the dish between them, scooping up some of the sauce inside. Blowing gently to cool it, he holds it to Will’s lips and tilts, encouraging him to swallow despite Will trying to resist. ‘I would have liked to play the clavier, or perhaps compose.’ He sighs again, his chest aching with remorse. ‘I would have liked to show you Florence, Will.’

_I would have liked our child to be born here._

Will gulps back a whine, hating the pain coiling in his gut at the Alpha’s confession. He holds on to the hatred, the fury, that he feels – _felt –_ at the betrayal, Abigail’s murder… Everything bad Hannibal has ever done, and manages to slur, sullenly,

‘Soup isn’t very good.’

Hannibal smiles, sniffing a chuckle at the valiant effort to remain angry, and shrugs an apology.

‘It’s a parsley and thyme infusion,’ he explains. ‘And more for _my_ sake than yours.’

Will tries to look away; tries to move, to do _anything_ but just _sit_ there and let this happen to him, but despite his gasping efforts to make his body respond, nothing happens.

‘Have another sip,’ Hannibal says, briskly forcing another spoonful of the infusion into Will’s mouth, where self-preservation makes him swallow to avoid choking. ‘Let that circulate.’

Will, struggling to make out the shrinking, swaying, shaking end of the table, narrows his eyes to focus on the plate, cutlery and wineglass set for another guest.

‘Are we expecting company?’ he asks, and Hannibal purrs, softly.

‘Yes, my love.’ He hears the front door of the apartment open with a click and smiles.

_And he’s right on time._

***

The apartment building where Professor Sogliato lived is old and luxurious. The entry board states that Sogliato lives in apartment 7b, at the top of the building.

Jack has just entered the elevator, closing the gate before him, when a young Asian Omega places a gloved hand on the bars. Acquiescing to her silent request, Jack closes the gate again and steps aside to give her a respectful distance. He notices her sharp glance towards the lit number seven, and smells the hint of salty fear before it is quickly suppressed.

Why is she nervous about him travelling to the seventh floor? And what is in the large, narrow suitcase she is carrying?

He doesn’t ask. Chasing Dr Lecter has made him paranoid, after all. She could just be a young Omega, unbonded, by the bright gold of her eyes, nervous about being alone in an elevator with an Alpha.

A reasonable assumption. And, if it’s anything more serious, he can defend himself.

They travel upwards in silence together, he on one side, she on the other. He studiously ignores the way she looks to the side, eyeing the gun in his pocket, and waits for her to step out of the elevator before him.

She’s with Hannibal. Of that, he’s sure.

He hangs back, waiting knowingly, and the Omega makes a show of ducking her head. She affects an air of bashfulness and hugs the rifle case closer to her chest.

‘Wrong floor,’ she lies, and takes the stairs, heading down. Jack watches her go, just until he’s sure she’s not about to turn around and come back up, and then picks the lock on Professor Sogliato’s apartment door.

To his surprise, and mounting suspicion, the door is already unlocked. It opens with a faint squeal of rusted hinges, and he brings his gun up, entering the lobby barrel-first.

Hannibal is here. Jack can smell the other Alpha’s scent, warm with Rut and spiced with glee at the game they’re playing.

He creeps, slowly and carefully, through the rooms of the apartment, following the sound of music. It grows louder as he approaches the dining room, and he steps from the shadows to see Will, beaten and bruised, his golden eyes hazy with drugs, strapped to the chair at the head of a table set for three.

A small pan sizzles with melting butter on a portable gas stove set on the side unit, ready to cook fresh meat at the table, but Jack has no idea where the other Alpha is hiding.

Instinct drives him to check on Will. The other man looks lost; blearily confused by whatever Hannibal has done to him, and he rolls his head to the side to look up when Jack touches his shoulder.

‘Will…?’

‘He… under the table, Jack.’

By the time Will’s slurred words register, Hannibal has already struck. With vicious accuracy, he drags a blade across the back of Jack’s ankle, severing the tendon and rendering his leg useless.

The pain is overwhelming, and Jack feels unconsciousness rush to overwhelm him. The last thing he sees, before his vision fades and his mind sinks into oblivion, is the cruel look of satisfaction on Hannibal’s face.

 _You haven’t won,_ he thinks. _Not yet._

***

Back in the Fell’s apartment overlooking the Arno River, Inspector Benetti smiles coldly at the drugged Alpha before him.

‘Your husband left you behind,’ he says, speaking in a soft, sibilant voice.

Bedelia Du Maurier, in an equally soft, deliberately gentle voice, replies simply,

‘I had no reason to run.’ She pauses, and then, as if reminding him, adds, ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘I hold in my hands,’ Inspector Benetti replies, ‘the photographs taken for Dr Fell’s state work permit.’ He opens the paper file before him and adds, as if an afterthought, ‘Oh, I _also_ have his French work papers…’ Holding the file up, he shows the other Alpha the passport photograph of the real Dr Fell. ‘Looks different with a beard… no?’

Bedelia affects a look of mild confusion.

‘That is not my husband,’ she says, eyes darting from the file to the Inspector’s face. Inspector Benetti quirks an eyebrow, grudgingly impressed by her acting.

‘This is Roman Fell,’ he explains, setting the French document aside and holding the next page up to show a color-scan of Lydia Fell’s passport. ‘And _this_ is Lydia Fell. His _Omega.’_

Bedelia dips his head, her blue eyes widening earnestly.

‘ _I_ am Lydia Fell,’ she says, making it sound like she’s speaking lines. As if she’s been coerced into believing a lie through sheer repetition and a cocktail of sedatives.

Inspector Benetti tilts his head at her, narrowing his eyes as the irises fill with red.

‘Did you murder her with your husband?’ he asks. ‘Or did you just watch?’

‘ _I_ am Lydia Fell,’ Bedelia repeats, and the Inspector leans forwards, brushing the side of her thigh with his hand before gripping the edge of the seat on which she sits.

‘I don’t _care_ who you are,’ he confesses, invading her space as he grants her the final warning. ‘I don’t _care_ if you’re in your right mind or your wrong mind… Do you understand? Those things are _inconsequential_.’

Bedelia hears the threat perfectly clear, and says, very deliberately,

‘ _I_ understand, in this moment, that you do not work for the Questura.’

Inspector Benetti smiles, his eyes glinting like rubies as he gives a single, subtle nod.

 _I’m working for Mason Verger_ , the nods says. _The man who just paid me one million dollars to deliver Hannibal Lecter into his possession._

‘That’s a good thing to understand,’ he whispers, and Bedelia nods her consent.

‘I do not want to be seen as… _uncooperative_ ,’ she says, and the Inspector shrugs.

‘How you are seen is entirely up to you,’ he replies. ‘Rescued by the brave Questura, or…’ He pauses, considering the options available to him. ‘Apprehended?’

Bedelia feels her irises prickle as the red of her Alphan caste pushes through the haze of drugs, but she is quick to swallow back her anger at the way in which Inspector Benetti is treating her. She has been brainwashed to believe she’s an Omega, after all. And these are dangerous waters she is navigating.

‘I’ve never considered myself in need of being… _rescued_ ,’ she says, adopting a soft, faltering voice and leaning forwards just enough to show her plunging cleavage, which Inspector Benetti quickly looks down at. ‘… Until now.’

_I’ll help you find Hannibal. And you’ll help me escape this wretched mess._

Their accord is unspoken but crystal clear. They will each play their part; brave Inspector, befuddled, brainwashed woman and a criminal mastermind they both want to remove from Florence.

‘Is your husband still in the city?’ Inspector Benetti asks, slowly and deliberately. Bedelia chooses her words carefully, sifting through the fogged thoughts drifting through her mind with as much precision as she can muster.

‘My husband was hoping to meet someone before he left Florence,’ she says. ‘An old partner.’

‘Where?’ Benetti prompts, to which Bedelia inclines her head, inviting another degree of intimacy.

‘The _nature_ of the meeting required privacy,’ she explains. ‘They will be somewhere _no-one_ is supposed to be.’

She raises her eyebrows meaningfully, and Inspector Benetti sits back with a satisfied smirk.

Somewhere no-one is supposed to be… Like a dead man’s apartment.

_Professor Sogliato’s flat._

‘Thank you, Mrs. Fell.’ The Inspector gets to his feet and beckons his officers closer. ‘We have him. Move out.’ He smiles down at her, sharp and pleased, and she smiles back in the same dazed way as before. ‘You’ve been very helpful. One of my officers will escort you to the Questura, where they’ll confirm your statement of capture and arrange for a flight back to the US.’

‘I do hope you find what you’re looking for,’ Bedelia says, rising and smoothing out the creases in her dress. ‘My husband can be… challenging… at times.’

_And if he has Will, he’ll be more dangerous than ever. That man truly brings out the beast in him._

***

Jack is slow to wake, but when he does he finds himself strapped to a chair in the same manner as Will, facing the Omega from the length of the table.

Hannibal stands between them, stirring a pot of sauce and preparing cutlery for whatever monstrous dish he’s planning to make them eat.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of giving you something to help you relax,’ he says, once he sees former-Special Agent Crawford’s eyes open. ‘You won’t be able to do much more than chew but…’ He smiles. ‘That’s all you’ll need to do.’

Panic swells as Jack tries, and fails, to make his own body respond to him. He can just about move his head; slowly and with difficulty, but his arms, legs and torso may as well be someone else’s for the control he has over them.

All he can do is watch as Hannibal sets a freshly sharpened knife down on the table and moves towards the drugged, bound Omega at the other end of the table.

‘I didn’t have an opportunity to ask you during our last encounter,’ Hannibal continues, ‘but did you enjoy the exhibition?’

His words, and gentle, casual tone implies a dinner party between friends; utterly at odds with the truth of their hostage situation. Will’s mind is slow to process the jarring nature of that fact, and Hannibal is already speaking again before he can think beyond the acknowledgement of it.

‘A different kind of Evil Minds Museum.’

Jack tries to glare but his face isn’t truly his own. He stares at the other Alpha, his eyes a dull, drugged red, feeling every one of his forty-nine years.

‘Not that different,’ he says, his voice weak with exhaustion.

It’s over. He’s failed. And now Will is lost to him – back in the clutches of a monster. Is Hannibal going to Bond him again? Are they going to eat him together?

Perhaps that’s what Will wants. After all, he admitted to wanting to run away with his former Alpha. Maybe he asked for this, in the hours between him disappearing from the Fell’s apartment and Jack arriving here.

Maybe he never intended to let Hannibal go. To kill him.

‘We were supposed to sit down together at your house in Baltimore,’ he says sadly, exhausted from the mind games and the fucked-up relationship between the two men opposite him. ‘Just the three of us.’

‘You were to be the guest of honor,’ Hannibal replies, looking down as the memories of that night – of Will’s heart-breaking betrayal – make his throat swell with emotion.

‘But the menu was all wrong,’ Will mumbles, grief pushing through the numbing haze. Grief for what happened; what could have been, and what is going to happen now.

_At least the twins are safe with Pops. He’ll take care of them. Raise them as he did me._

‘Yes,’ Hannibal says, giving Will’s shoulder a quick, comforting squeeze. ‘It was.’

He turns away, moving briskly before doubt can make him falter. He needs to do this. It’s the only way he can release Will from his influence, whilst keeping the Omega close to him.

The only way he knows how to love.

He sets an ornate box on the table beside Will’s place setting and lifts the lid, speaking as he does.

‘Jack was the first to suggest getting inside your head.’ As he speaks, he assembles a surgical bone saw. ‘Now we both have the opportunity to chew, quite literally, what we’ve only chewed figuratively.’

_God, no…_

Will’s horror at what his former mate is suggesting momentarily washes away the drug-fog. He still can’t move, but his breathing becomes shallow and rapid and his eyes pulse gold with fear as the Alpha approaches him, the blade on the saw whizzing with deadly speed.

_Hannibal, please… There are other ways of keeping with me with you._

He understands, with startling clarity, that the Alpha is doing this because he loves him. He still loves him; worships and adores him, but the affection is deadly. He wants to keep Will close to him, always, and the only way he knows how to honor him appropriately, to respect him as much as he deserves to be, is to eat the best part of him.

His mind.

‘Hannibal.’ Jack speaks, slowly and carefully, his voice weak from the paralytic coursing through his veins. ‘ _Stop_.’

_He’s your mate. Your Omega. You don’t want to do this._

‘Stop!’

Ignoring him, Hannibal brings the saw up, closer and closer to Will’s forehead. Then, very deliberately, he presses the spinning blade to his Omega’s skin.

Will feels the vibration of the saw, tingling and tickling through his head despite the numbing sedative. His mind rebels against the reality of his situation; this can’t really be happening. Hannibal isn’t really doing this; he never does anything too damaging to him. He hurts him, breaks him, but he always puts him back together again.

They can’t come back from this, so it can’t be real.

Heedless of his desperate denial, there is the unmistakable, sickeningly high-pitched sound of metal slicing into flesh and bone. Blood begins to trickle down between Will's eyes, blinding him. The bone saw continues to scream, its madly-spinning, serrated blade chewing through his head.

Jack screams as well, but Will can’t hear him. He can’t hear anything but the saw and his own, rapid pulse. Blood sprays, droplets floating upwards like bubbles suspended over the table. In them, he sees himself, juddering and shaking as the saw deals its damage, Jack, fighting against invisible bonds and Hannibal, half-in shadow, the Wendigo guiding his hands.

_The monster inside you, making you do something I know you’ll regret._

The last thought, before consciousness chases him into darkness, is that he was right to let Hannibal believe the babies had died.

 _You’ll never know what you could have had,_ he thinks, as the ceiling pulls away to reveal an endless sky of blue dotted with clouds. An oblivion of peace, with no more fear. _What we could have had. Together._

***

In Maryland, USA, the towering trees of the Verger estate are laden with snow. The air is freezing, both inside the back of the chilled meat van and beyond the truck.

Chains clink as wheels bounce through ruts and catch on stones. The service road is uneven and dead pigs swing on their hooks, legs bound, tongues lolling, bodies wrapped in cellophane.

Slowly coming back to consciousness, wondering why he feels dizzy and sick, it takes Will several minutes to realize where he is.

Hanging upside down, battered on either side by pig carcasses, in a moving room that must be a vehicle.

Hannibal is beside him, serene and composed despite the same predicament. The Alpha’s phase is ruddy with blood rushing to it, his blond hair hanging down from his head. Will’s curls are plastered with sweat and blood, more of it on his face, staining his cheeks, clumping in his eyelashes… He can feel the gash on his forehead pulsing, stinging, a flap of skin moving as the van jerks to a stop.

There are footsteps, muffled voices and then the sound of a bolt being drawn back. The doors open and Will squints against the blinding light of the outside world.

He hears a motor, the crunch of approaching wheels and then a chillingly familiar voice, which tells him that things, as bad as they were in Florence, are about to get much, _much_ worse.

‘Gentlemen,’ Mason Verger announces, his mutilated face unable to pull his mouth into a grin but his blue eyes blazing with glee at the sight of not one prize, but _two_. ‘Welcome to Muskrat Farm.’


	7. Digestivo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal are tortured at Muskrat Farm, but Mason overplays his hand with Margot and her “surrogate”, with devastating consequences. 
> 
> Hannibal learns about the twins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps! Oooosh, after a long wait, I do hope you enjoy this latest instalment. I certainly had a lot of fun writing it, though it was VERY emotional at the end. I hope I've captured the emotions alright... 
> 
> Enjoy! I hope you're all staying as safe and well as you can xxx

SEVEN

_Digestivo_

Inspector Benetti and his men split up when they arrive at Sogliato’s apartment building. Two men take the stairs, and Benetti rides in the elevator with the others.

They storm the apartment without warning. Inspector Benetti brings up the rear, striding into the dining room to see Hannibal Lecter using a bone saw to cut into the skull of his former Omega.

‘Sono un ufficiale del FBI,’ Jack calls, the moment Hannibal switches off the bone saw and lowers the weapon from Will’s dented, bleeding forehead. ‘Ascoltami! Mi chiamo Jack Crawford! Sono un ufficiale del FBI!’

Will’s vision is blurred. Distorted. Jack’s face looks like a Picasso; wonky features shifting and sliding on top of one another.

_Don’t think he got my brain… Not quite._

Not far off, though. The circular blade drips with ragged bits of flesh and blood.

‘Ascoltami,’ Jack says, pleading with them to listen to him. Just stop and _listen_ for one moment. ‘ _Ascoltami!’_

Inspector Benetti smirks down at him, confident in his control of the situation as Dr Lecter kneels on the floor, his hands behind his head.

Jack frowns up at him, defeated in the knowledge that the other Alpha isn’t here to deliver justice.

‘Commendatore Benetti,’ he says, sick with it all. ‘I don’t imagine you’re here to make an arrest.’

‘No,’ Inspector Benetti says, smiling beatifically. ‘You imagine correctly.’ He nods to one of his men, the brawny Alpha closest to Hannibal, who whacks the kneeling Alpha over the back of the head with the butt of his gun.

Hannibal drops, unconscious, to the floor, and the police officer binds his wrists and ankles with plastic cord ties.

‘Take Lecter and this one,’ Benetti says, nodding towards Will. ‘He’ll pay us double for both.’

One of the Beta officers pulls out a black sack from his belt and thrusts it over the Omega’s head, heedless of the bloody wound on his forehead. They unstrap him from the chair and cuff him with the same ties, depositing him on the floor beside Lecter.

Inspector Benetti smirks at Jack, his eyes glinting red.

‘There’s no price on _your_ head, Signor Crawford,’ he says, and Jack sighs. He already knows where this is going. The story the Questura will spin.

‘So,’ he says, dread weighing him down as much as the paralytic. ‘Hannibal Lecter… _Il Mostro di Firenze_ , narrowly escapes the Questura.’ Benetti’s men carry Will and Hannibal from the apartment, trusted to ensure the two captives to the unmarked van waiting in the alley at the back of the apartment building. ‘Is that how the story goes?’

Benetti holds his finger and thumb apart.

‘Missed him by _this_ much,’ he confirms. ‘The good Dr Lecter is once more in the wind. But he left _one_ last victim.’ He turns to the remaining Alpha in the room – the same brute that had bashed Lecter over the head. ‘Open him the way Lecter opened the other one,’ he says, eyes shining crimson with excitement when he turns back to Jack and purrs, ‘Open him all the way.’

He bids Jack farewell and leaves the room, committing the former FBI Agent to his fate at the hands of a cruelly-grinning Alpha, holding the bone saw with undisguised glee, and a Beta come up from behind to hold his head steady.

Jack closes his eyes, resigned to his fate. It’s going to hurt; the paralytic is numbing his body but he can feel everything in his head. It’s a cruel, torturous demise, worse than Hannibal had planned for him.

And then –

_Thwap. Thwap._

Two shots, muffled by a professional silencer, and the corrupt police officers fall to the floor. Jack jerks in his restraints and looks over to see a perfectly round hole in the window.

From the roof of the neighboring building, Chiyoh hums her satisfaction at the clean, concise shots.

Hannibal has been taken. She needs to know where.

It doesn’t take long for her to enter Professor Sogliato’s apartment. She enters slowly, rifle drawn in case Jack Crawford tries to attack. The other Alpha remains seated at the head of the table, just as he had been when the dead men had been about to saw open his head.

She sees that he recognizes her immediately. He smiles knowingly, his irises gleaming a dull red in the gloom.

‘Wrong floor,’ he says, and they share a moment of understanding. Of _knowing_. They are both hunters, predators in their own rights, but she has the power in this situation.

Jack lowers his gaze as a sign of respect, asking,

‘Would you mind coming over here and pulling this needle out of my neck?’

Chiyoh doesn’t move, doesn’t lower the rifle.

‘Where did they take them?’ she demands, and Jack, recognizing the power-scope sniper rifle for what it is, glances down at each corpse cooling on the tiles.

‘Did you do this?’ he asks, and Chiyoh lifts one shoulder in a small, indifferent shrug.

‘Of course.’

‘I appreciate it,’ Jack replies, and their understanding strengthens. Deepens. Solidifies.

Chiyoh sets the rifle down against the chair beside her.

‘You’re sitting at Hannibal’s table,’ she says, considering the drugged Alpha before her. ‘You know him. You know Will.’

‘I know them,’ Jack confirms. ‘They are identically different. Hannibal and Will.’

‘ _Where_ did they take them?’ Chiyoh repeats, and decides not to risk delaying answering her any further.

‘They’re most likely taking them to the US, to Maryland,’ he says. ‘I can even tell you the address…’ He glances at the IV standing beside him. ‘… Once you’ve pulled this needle out of my neck.’

And there it is. The only bargaining chip he has. He has information she wants. She has the autonomy of movement in her limbs.

Chiyoh narrows her eyes.

‘Then what?’ she asks, immediately suspicious. Jack tries to shrug but his shoulders don’t respond.

‘My “then what” consists of getting out of Florence alive,’ he replies, thinking of the bribed Questura. ‘Since I’m supposed to be dead.’ He meets the Omega’s gaze steadily and adds, ‘Which puts me in no position to stop whatever it is you intend on starting.’

Chiyoh considers the request, considers her options, and then complies. She moves around to Jack’s other side and rips the needle from his neck, not bothering to be gentle. The man has still be hunting her Alpha, after all, and he would have arrested Hannibal if he’d had the chance.

Jack winces at the pain, and at the feeing of blood trickling down his neck, but the relief is a sweet antidote as the paralyzing drug stops flowing into his system.

 _‘Where?’_ Chiyoh demands, and Jack frowns up at her.

‘Muskrat Farm,’ he says. ‘The Verger estate, near the Susquehanna River in northern Maryland.’

Chiyoh nods, still eyeing him coldly, and then moves to retrieve a handgun from the dead Alpha. She places it, very specifically, in front of Jack, promising him a means of defending himself on his way out of the city.

Then, shouldering the rifle, she leaves.

She has a long way to go, and she needs to hurry.

***

Will regains consciousness on the plane.

Hannibal watches as the Omega stirs, groans, and then tries to move. He feels the bite of his own restraints, the plastic cutting deep into his wrists, constricting the circulation until his fingers ache.

‘Don’t fight your bonds,’ he murmurs, wishing, absurdly, that he could move closer to comfort his former mate. ‘They’ll only tighten.’

Will hears the words as if from a distance. His head is pounding, as painful as the time Hannibal had forced him to detox from Heat suppressants.

_At least that was for my own good… In a twisted, demented sort of way._

‘Where’r’we?’ he mumbles, each word slurring into the next. ‘W’happened?’

The last thing he remembers is… The wendigo, its blank, white eyes boring into him as surely as the bone saw in its deadly grip… Razor-tipped antlers stretching towards the ceiling and Jack… Jack screaming for Hannibal to stop… To let him live, even as the blade chewed a dent into his skull.

‘We’ve been kidnapped,’ Hannibal says, his voice as calm and unperturbed as if discussing the weather. ‘Sold by the _Questura di Firenze_ to Mason Verger. We’re on his private plane, right now. In the cargo hold, of course.’

‘Mason Verger?’ Will tries to lift his head but agony rips down his spine and he gives up with a gasping whimper. Hannibal’s scent thickens with the first hint of Rut and a monitor, attached via a sticky electrode to the Alpha’s throat, blips a warning.

A door opens, metal hinges squealing, and an Alpha guard comes into the hold. His nostrils are plugged with odor-repellant and he carries a cattle prod in one hand, a wicked-looking syringe in the other.

‘Time for your next shot, Dr Lecter,’ he says, and stabs the needle into Hannibal’s buttock. The plunger goes down and a fresh burst of Neutralizer shoots into his system, stifling his Alphan strength and dulling his senses.

Too many doses risks rendering him infertile, but Hannibal doubts Mason intends to breed him.

No, the mutilated Beta has been hunting him for the better part of a year, for the sole pleasure of torturing and killing him.

His dedication is to be commended.

‘Get th’fuck off him,’ Will growls, kicking with his bound legs. ‘M’gon’kill you.’

‘Shut up,’ the Alpha says, bringing the two prongs of the electric stick right up to Will’s face and pressing the button. Blue light zaps between the electrodes, crackling with static, and Will shrinks back even as his eyes flare gold with fear. The Alpha smirks and zaps it twice more, sniggering as the Omega flinches, before he is satisfied that both captives are once more under total control.

‘Thank you for stitching his wound,’ Hannibal says, drawing the guard’s attention with his polite, steady voice. ‘I watched your work. You have a steady hand.’

‘Had a lot of practice with assholes like your ‘Meg, here,’ the Alpha replies, turning to leer down at the bound man at his feet. ‘You’re a sick son-of-a-bitch, ain’t ya?’

‘It’s a pity your hand isn’t as steady when you play Poker,’ Hannibal continues, tossing his head to flick blood-crusted hair from his face so he can smirk up at the guard. ‘You may not have lost the last three rounds.’ At the guard’s deepening scowl, he adds, ‘Or, maybe you just don’t have the balls for it. You know what they say, if you can’t play with the big boys, perhaps you should sit at the kiddies’ table.’

The Alpha snarls and jabs the cattle prod right into Hannibal’s midsection, sending a burst of five thousand volts into his stomach. When the Alpha doesn’t respond, he prods him again, harder, and then stumbles out of the cargo hold, muttering about crazy bastards getting what’s coming to them.

Once the door is locked, and they are alone, Will speaks. He tries to shift closer, battling through the pain of the motion, and manages to rest his bandaged head against Hannibal’s shoulder.

The Alpha’s gaze is distant; he has retreated into his Palace. Will can sense him there, savoring the beauty he so admires, free from pain and physical discomfort.

‘Stay inside,’ he whispers, nuzzling the Alpha’s bruised jawline to offer some small comfort. ‘Think of me as I was. As we were. But don’t worry about me.’

_It’s going to be worse for you. If I can spare you that pain, I will._

***

Creamy skin gives way to puckered scar tissue and Margot whimpers softly when Alana kisses along the strip of red and silver. The Alpha hushes her, soothing her with deep purrs and a strong, steady hand over her thigh, promising continued devotion and affection no matter her appearance.

No matter her infertility.

‘You’re perfect,’ Alana whispers, laving her tongue across the hysterectomy scar and coating it with her spit to encourage continued healing. ‘My beautiful girl.’

‘Bond me,’ Margot begs, gazing down at the other woman between her legs, the back of her neck flushed and tingling with heat. Desperate to be bitten. ‘Please… I love you.’

‘I love you, too,’ Alana says, crawling back up the Omega’s body. ‘Since I first met you, I loved you.’

‘Mason can’t own me if you Bond me,’ Margot says, trying to pull Alana’s hand to her nape. ‘I’d become yours. Completely.’

Alana resists the urge to hold the Omega by her neck, knowing the rush of resulting pheromones would kick her own instincts into overdrive. She holds herself up above Margot, staring down into her gold-ringed eyes, feeling the heat of her against her thigh where she presses against the other woman.

‘Is that the only reason you want me to Bond you?’ she asks, trying not to let disappointment color her voice. ‘So that your legal guardianship will pass from Mason to me?’

‘No, I…’ Margot reaches up and cups the side of Alana’s face, stroking her cheek with her thumb. ‘I want you to Bond me because I want to _be_ with you. Always. I want to be yours.’ She sighs. ‘Transferring my legal guardianship would just be… An added bonus.’

‘Your brother doesn’t deserve you,’ Alana replies, and they both think of the scar across the Omega’s midsection. ‘He doesn’t deserve any of this.’

‘If you Bonded me, you could challenge him to the Verger estate,’ Margot says, arching her back in a subtle but provocative movement that rubbed her against Alana’s skin. ‘The will was very specific… In the absence of a male or Alphan heir… But as my Alpha you would _become_ the legitimate Alpha of the family… Mason would have no choice but to surrender to you.’

Alana scoffs and rolls her crimson-ringed eyes.

‘You think Mason will ever surrender to anyone?’ she asks, rocking her hips down into the Omega’s small but persistent pleas for intimacy. ‘The only way he’ll pass up the Verger fortune is if he’s dead.’

Margot tilts her head back, baring the smooth column of her throat and inviting Alana to suckle at it with a high, quavering whine. The invitation is clear – Bond her, claim her, kill Mason.

‘Together,’ Alana says, and she uses a hand under Margot’s back to flip the Omega into the classing mating position, exposing the back of her neck for biting. ‘We’ll kill him together.’

‘Please,’ Margot whispers, canting her hips and pulling her hair to the side. ‘ _Please_ , Alana.’

Alana growls, low and feral, and her eyes pulse red at the resulting shudder wracking the Omega. She bows low over the other woman, bracing her weight on one hand as she plunges two fingers of the other deep inside Margot’s body, crooking them down and rubbing against the sensitive flesh inside as she sinks her teeth into the skin of her neck.

Margot keens, long and high, clenching tight around the Alpha’s digits and juddering as orgasm rips through her. She presses up into the bite, back onto the fingers, and spasms at the relentless waves of pleasure.

Alana shivers, rocking her hips to rub against the back of Margot’s thigh and coming, hard, at the smell and sound of the Omega clamped between her teeth. She bites harder, drooling at the taste of sweet, coppery blood, and laps at the torn edges of the wound even as deep purrs rattle up from her chest.

No wonder Alphas were so protective of Omegas. She’d never felt pleasure like this before. Never felt such a sense of _completeness_ and devotion to another being.

‘Mine,’ she whispers, pressing a damp kiss to the raw bitemark and holding Margot to her as they collapse onto the mattress, sweaty and shaking and spent.

***

Some time later, once Margot’s body has relaxed enough to release Alana’s fingers, and the bite on the back of her neck has begun to heal into a ridged crest, she takes a call on her cell phone.

‘Pronto,’ she says, greeting the caller in Italian.

‘Buongiorno, _signorina_.’ Inspector Benetti of the _Questura_ di Firenze allows a little hunger to color his tone; Margot Verger is, after all, an available Omega. Her brother may reward his efforts with more than just money. ‘I have good news.’

‘Dimmi tutto,’ Margot demands, and Inspector Benetti smiles. She wants to know everything; he’s more than happy to oblige.

As Margot listens to the man on the other end of the line, humming every so often, Alana rolls onto her back with a sigh. The black silk sheets of the Omega’s bed are warm, and carry their mingled scents. Jasmine and rose; sugar and smoke.

 _Mine_.

It’s all coming together. Hannibal has been captured by Mason’s men in Italy, and he’ll be brought here, to Muskrat Farm, to be tortured and killed.

Mason will be distracted; the perfect opportunity to get Margot to safety.

Outside, the full moon casts a sickly pale glow over the landscape, and Alana shivers at the imagined sight of Hannibal’s face in the shadows of the branches near the window.

_Be blind, Alana. Don’t be brave._

Bravery would mean fighting Mason. Using her newfound Alphan strength to defeat him honorably. To fight for her Omega and solidify her claim by defeating another suitor.

The last time she was brave, she was thrown from a window and shattered almost every bone in her body. She underwent a trauma so profound that her latent Alpha genes activated as a means of saving her life.

_Hannibal deserves what he gets from Mason._

‘Mason’s men picked Hannibal up at an apartment less than an hour ago,’ Margot says, placing the cell phone back onto the bedside table and rolling back into Alana’s embrace. ‘He’s on his way to the airport, where he’ll be flown back to America on one of the Verger jets. Mason will have him driven here with the next shipment of pig carcasses.’

‘How long is the flight?’ Alana asks, pushing Margot’s silky hair back from her face and cupping her cheek tenderly. The Omega purrs, just once, and smiles into the touch, appreciating the intimacy.

‘A little over seventeen hours,’ she replies, and giggles as Alana suddenly pins her with a fierce, hungry kiss.

‘Then we have plenty of time to fuck,’ the Alpha growls, plunging two fingers back inside her mate’s slick, eager body. ‘I want to hear you scream my name again.’

***

The next morning, Alana watches from their bedroom window as the distant truck carrying Mason's precious cargo draws ever closer, growing from a tiny speck of white against the treeline as it makes its way along the bumpy service roads of the estate.

'Mason has what he wants,' she says, imagining Hannibal, bound and gagged inside the van, surrounded by the carcasses of animals he felt he was too good to eat. 'It's time you get what _you_ want.'

'Mason has Hannibal,' Margot confirms, coming to stand beside her Alpha and gazing down at the truck. She sighs, the cell phone heavy in her hand as she thinks of the call just received from Mason's team at the airport. 'He also has Will.'

If Alana is distressed by this, she doesn't show it. Her eyes barely register the shock, just a brief flicker of red before they fade back to blue, and Margot smells concern, quickly suppressed.

'Your brother's a sadist,' Alana says, returning her sharp, thoughtful gaze to the window. 'He'll torture them both and take the time to enjoy it.' She looks at her Omega, affection warming her gaze. 'That gives _us_ time.'

Her intention is clear. She may not like the idea of Will, another Omega, being hurt, but if it's a choice between him and Margot?

Her mate will always come first.

***

By the time they arrive at Muskrat Farm, Will wishes he'd remained unconscious for the journey. The chilled truck, with its delivery of captured men and dead pigs, takes every service road from the airfield to the house, wheels bumping through ruts and over stones, jostling them where they hang, suspended upside down, dangling from meat hooks through the cords binding their ankles.

Every move sends them lurching either into each other or against the hard metal of the walls, and Will's head swims even as his limbs ache with lack of blood flow. His crude stitches throb with every beat of his stubborn heart and the cold air makes the dried blood on his face crack and itch.

When the doors finally open, and a chillingly familiar, nasal voice calls out to them, remaining unconscious seems even more appealing.

‘Gentlemen,’ Mason Verger croons, using the joystick on his electric wheelchair to roll closer to the van. ‘Welcome to Muskrat Farm.’

He’s been waiting for them since receiving the call that the jet had landed. There’s a hush over the Farm, like the quiet of the old Sabbath. He’s told Cordell this, of course. It smells like salvation.

Like blood.

The driver reverses the truck to the very edge of the loading dock and lowers the ramp, allowing Mason to wheel his chair directly into the back of the chilled van where his prizes hang by their ankles.

Dr Lecter is dressed in dirty, rumpled black clothes, his red-ringed eyes dull with Neutralizing drugs. It’s imperative that he remains in a stupor until he’s secured in the appropriate bonds; an Alpha as strong as Lecter needs careful managing.

His whore of an Omega hangs beside him, white shirt spattered with blood, swollen face smeared with red and golden eyes glassy. Will Graham was never an intended target, but Mason isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and this way his fun has just doubled.

‘Your people might have assassinated me in Florence, Mason,’ Hannibal says, somehow managing to make it sound like a mildly curious comment, rather than a desperate plea to know why he and Will have been kidnapped.

Mason smirks at him, power slithering through his veins like the great eel in his bedroom tank.

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he replies, sneering down at his prey. He enjoys seeing the Alpha bound and hanging like this; so much more satisfying than beating children. An Alpha is a worthy opponent, and having one such as _Lecter_ beaten and subdued is _sublime_.

He pulls the ivory-handled knife free from his coat sleeve, saying, as he does,

‘I still keep my father’s knife, ever ready to slip into a pig’s back to check the depth of the _fat_. Cordell, if you would?’

The fat, bald, Beta nurse behind him steps forward and, smiling cruelly, spins Hannibal slowly around so that his backside is level with Mason’s hand.

Mason croons his pleasure and slides the knife, inch by painful inch, into Hannibal’s flank. Will watches, dimly wondering if any of this nightmare can be real, his heart lurching and stomach twisting as his Alpha is wounded.

Hannibal, however, merely blinks at the assault. He chooses not to feel the pain; he turns his attention inwards once again and sits beside a lake, listening to the drone of bees and the chirrup of birds, slim fingers plucking the strings of a Japanese lute.

Mason huffs his disappointment at Dr Lecter’s lack of response. The man’s stoicism is grating, but there’s all the time in the world to make him squeal.

‘A little _lean_ , I think,’ he announces, and the pointed tip of his tongue appears, like a small snake finding its way out of his face, desperate to taste the blood on the blade. ‘Maybe we should _fatten_ you up, shall we?’ He reverses his chair and, still inspecting the red-smeared knife, gives the order for the two men to be taken inside.

The Omega gives them more trouble than Hannibal, though a sharp blow to the back of Will’s neck soon renders his limbs useless as pain saps his strength. Hannibal remains calm and polite for the duration, watching with an expression of mild, detached curiosity at the scene unfolding before him.

Mason leads the way into his personal pigpen; a white-tiled room off the barn that houses his favorite hogs.

There’s a cage set up, specifically, for Dr Lecter.

The Alpha and Omega are wheeled in on trolleys, strapped across the chests, arms and legs, made to stand upright and watch, even as they are pushed towards their doom.

‘It’s more trouble to move a semi-wild pig against its will than it is to kidnap a man,’ Mason informs them, giddy with excitement to know that his dream is _finally_ coming true. His long, cold months plotting revenge, finally coming to fruition… And it’s all going _exactly_ to plan.

‘Pigs are harder to get hold of,’ Cordell adds, equally smug in his part of the charade. ‘And big ones are stronger than an Alpha.’

‘And there are the tusks to consider,’ Mason muses, watching as Hannibal and Will are placed, none-too-gently, into position across the aisle from each other, each man locked in place with leather and steel. ‘ _If_ you want to maintain the integrity of your abdomen.’ He leers at Will. ‘Something worth maintaining, eh, Mr Graham?’ He sniggers. ‘I hear pelvic trauma is _deadly_ for an unborn child.’

For the first time since Florence, Hannibal feels a flicker of pain. Not for himself, but for his beloved Will and the child they could have shared together. He watches carefully as Mason wheels himself closer to the Omega; watches Will gaze blearily down at the Beta from his bindings, the bandages soaked through with more blood from being dumped on the floor of the truck during moving.

‘Tusked beasts instinctively disembowel,’ Mason adds, greedy eyes staring at the white shirt under which Will’s scar is hiding. Before he kills him, he wants to see it. To open it up again and press his hand inside the space where a baby once grew. ‘At swine fairs,’ he continues, using the joystick to turn his wheelchair around to face Hannibal, ‘I’ve seen exotic pigs from all over the _world_.’ He gazes up at the Alpha; broken, bloody, beaten. ‘ _You_ are the best of _all_ that I’ve seen.’

Hannibal smiles, pleased with the compliment. He is the best, after all. A true Alpha, like the Primal predators of old.

‘We are going to have some good, funny times, Dr Lecter,’ Mason promises, his blue eyes glittering with cold cruelty as he imagines all the ways to hurt the man who broke his spine. ‘You and your Omegan _slut_ are _mine_ to play with. And we have _all_ the time in the world.’

He turns to the security guards awaiting their next instruction.

‘Hose them down and clean them up. Cordell and I are going back to the house. I think I’ll have a rest before dinner. When the bell rings at seven, dress them in the outfits laid out in the next room, and then bring them in through the back.’ Pausing, Mason cocks his head as he looks Will up and down and then says, with a wink at Hannibal, ‘Best make sure you clean this one _inside_ and _out_ , if you know what I mean. Omegas can be _so_ dirty.’ He chuckles and leads the way out of the room. ‘Let the good times begin.’

***

As Cordell baths Mason in warm water, taking care to pat dry and moisturize his fragile, scarred skin, the Sardinian thugs – hired to replace Carlos and his incompetent brothers – hose Hannibal and Will down with icy water. They keep the Alpha strapped to the gurney, knowing better than to risk releasing the stronger man after going to such effort to capture him, but the Omega is easier to shove to the ground and shackle. They drag him, kicking and biting, and vent their frustration on him with fists and feet until the white tiles of the washroom drip red.

Hannibal calls to them the moment they pause for breath.

‘Care for him now and I will kill you quickly,’ he promises, smiling beatifically at them as they circle him, cracking their knuckles and baring crooked, yellowing teeth. They hiss profanities at him, telling him he will die here, and one goes so far as to spit in his face – Hannibal will take his time with that one, no matter what – but they linger near him, giving Will the space he so desperately needs.

‘Mason will want him in good condition,’ Hannibal adds, trying another tactic, concentrating on speaking without allowing his teeth to chatter in the cold air. ‘If he plans to torture him, I doubt he’d want your marks all over his property.’

The Sards mutter amongst themselves at that, and Hannibal’s eyes glitter at the scent of unease. He watches as they traipse back into the wash area to fetch the dripping, shivering Omega. They dump the naked man back onto the trolley and lash him back into place, slapping his face and checking his pulse before retreating to their station for cigarettes and coffee.

Alone with only the snuffling pigs to overhear, Hannibal shakes wet hair from his face and leans forwards.

‘Will, can you hear me?’

Will grunts a soft, pained sound of acknowledgement, trying to lift his aching head as if drawn by a magnet to Hannibal’s quiet, insistent voice. The Alpha purrs, just once, pitching it low so as not to carry beyond their space. It is both praise and encouragement, and Will whines in response, muscles contracting as he fights against the darkness pressing against the edges of his vision.

‘You were magnificent,’ Hannibal whispers, aching to touch his beloved once again. ‘When you came to me in Florence. When you tracked me. Hunted me down.’

‘I was stupid,’ Will mutters, a helpless tear rolling down his bruised, battered cheek because he’ll never see the twins again. He’ll never hold his son or his daughter again. Never read to them. Never watch them grow. ‘I was stupid… And now I’m going to die here, with you.’

‘Mason won’t kill us yet,’ Hannibal says, confident in his assertion. ‘He wishes to torture us, first.’

‘You must be so _proud_ of your former patient,’ Will slurs, managing to lift his chin just enough to glare at the smiling Alpha. ‘He’s embraced his true nature.’

‘Mason has no worm with which to destroy himself,’ Hannibal agrees. ‘He has freed himself from the shackles of modern convention.’

‘He’s transformed,’ Will murmurs, caught in the eddy of his Alpha’s words, knowledge and understanding rising up within him as surely as his dark shadow fills his veins. ‘Elevated to a status beyond his peers.’

‘We changed him,’ Hannibal says, lifting one bare shoulder in a small shrug. ‘You and I. We molded him into the man he is today.’

‘He cut his own face off,’ Will argues, but Hannibal shakes his head.

‘He wielded the blade, but it was you who pulled the strings. _You_ , Will, who set the snare and watched as the rabbit screamed.’

‘I let myself get too lost in you,’ Will says, staring miserably at the man he’d loved. The man who had destroyed him.

The man who, barely two days ago, had been trying to cut open his skull to eat his brain.

‘The brain itself feels no pain,’ Hannibal says, catching the thought like a leaf on the breeze down one of the many empty passageways between their shared Palace. ‘The anesthetic would have ensured you felt nothing as I tied and sealed the major blood vessels.’

‘I would have watched you firm slivers of my prefrontal lobe in lemon juice and ice water, tossed in flour and breadcrumbs, and sauteed in hot butter,’ Will growls. ‘You would have _fed me my_ _own brain_ and then sliced up the rest of it to consume with croutons and caper berries for supper.’

‘I would have held you with me, forever,’ Hannibal replies. ‘Like moonbeams…’

‘Carried home in a jar,’ Will breathes, understanding, with a rush, the level of twisted devotion driving the man to do such wicked things. ‘Hannibal, you _can’t_ keep doing this to me.’

‘All I want for you, Will, is complete freedom and peace and self-sufficiency,’ Hannibal says, leaning forwards against the leather straps until his skin turns white from the pressure. ‘You’ve never lacked the courage to say what you think, but you’ve been hampered by constraints. Pity, _mylimasis_ , has no place at the table.’

‘And _you_ keep thinking that you can make a place for _Mischa_ in this world. A prime place. Vacated for her. Whether that’s me or Abigail or…’ Will bit his lower lip to keep from saying _“our daughter”_ , and Hannibal, thankfully, reads the abrupt stop as a surge of emotion.

Before the Alpha can reply, however, the Sards return from their break. They bring a medical kit with them and re-stitch Will’s forehead, taking care to clean and dry his face.

‘You talk again,’ the burliest thug says, waving a knife in front of Hannibal’s face, ‘and I’ll cut out his tongue.’ He points to Will, who scowls from under fresh bandages, and motions for his men to tightens the chains securing them to links bolted to the concrete floor. The resulting tension pulls their trolleys further apart, making unheard conversation impossible, and exposes Will to the eyeline of the Sard’s break area. One of them whistles his appreciation at the Omega’s naked body and exposed genitals, and the leader with the knife smirks at Hannibal even as he runs his hand through Will’s pubic hair, gathering up his scent before sauntering away.

Will, teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurts, shuts his eyes tight against the sight of Hannibal’s anger and tries not to smell stale sweat, whiskey, and oil on concrete.

_It’s not Coby. It’s not Samuel. And that’s the worst they can do to me._

Mason will do the rest.

***

Waking refreshed after his nap, Mason is eager to attend to business ahead of dinner. He checks on his prisoners, using the monitors set up beside his bed to watch the two bound forms of Hannibal and Will, naked and shivering, before reading the e-mail update from Inspector Benetti.

Then, once his pulse has calmed, he summons Dr Bloom to his suite.

‘Sad news about Jack Crawford,’ he says, feigning an air of regret not bought for one moment by the Alpha in the Chanel suit. ‘Appears Hannibal Lecter killed him in Florence. I hope there’s some satisfaction in being the final victim of the Chesapeake Ripper.’ His voice thickens before he manages to swallow, and adds, slyly, ‘There’ll certainly be some notoriety.’

‘The feces are flying again in Florence,’ Margot announces, striding into the room wearing a gold, silk-lined lamé blouse with a high back to hide her new crest. She makes a point of keeping her gaze on her brother, refusing to betray the new bond she has with Alana. ‘Jack Crawford is alive.’

Mason narrows his eyes at the two women. There’s something different between them, and they’ve definitely been thick as thieves since deciding to fuck, but surely Margot wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk asking Dr Bloom to Court her?

It would be suicide for the Alpha, of course.

‘Well, that’s disappointing,’ he says, feeling as if a Christmas present has just been snatched away. Like a promising child turning out to be a teenager.

‘He saw the snatch,’ Margot warns, and Mason’s chest tightens in alarm.

‘I trust you haven’t betrayed doctor-patient confidentiality, Dr Bloom,’ he growls, settling his steely gaze on his therapist.

‘Your trust hasn’t been misplaced,’ Alana assures him, and Margot is quick – too quick – to jump in and distract him by adding,

‘The FBI _is_ going catch the first squeal on the kidnapping.’

Mason scoffs away her pathetic, _Omegan_ concerns.

‘The moment Jack Crawford set foot in Italy, I registered complaints with the local authorities, the sheriff, the US Attorney’s office, that he’d been _harassing_ me. Calling me, late at night, with incoherent threats.’

Alana considers this, nodding shrewdly.

‘Of course,’ she muses, ‘he can’t prove he didn’t.’

‘And it muddies the water,’ Mason agrees, still looking sideways at her with open suspicion.

‘Now you can head off a warrant,’ Margot begins, but Mason rolls his eyes.

‘There will be no warrant,’ he says. ‘And there will be no warrant forthcoming.’

Margot swallows, deferring to her brother’s superiority, and glances up from under her lashes when Alana speaks.

‘I appreciate wanting to kill Hannibal Lecter. And I’m not without benefit from that.’ She smiles up at her mate, a low, rumbling purr rising from deep within her Alphan throat, designed to soothe the other woman.

Mason narrows his eyes again, feeling the irritating tug of control slipping in her direction.

‘He can’t make good on his promise to murder you if he’s _dead_ , now, can he?’ reminding her of her tenuous, _dependent_ situation.

‘But he’s not dead,’ Alana reminds him, and her blue eyes darken to red. ‘Play with your food, Mason, and you give it the opportunity to bite back.’

‘Oh, I’m not _playing_ , Dr Bloom,’ Mason insists, irritated that she would even suggest such a thing. He’s never been as serious as he is about eating Dr Lecter.

‘Hannibal is,’ Alana says, red-painted lips curving into a coolly amused smile, crimson eyes twinkling. ‘He’s always playing.’

_And he always wins._

***

The Sardinian guards dress them when it’s time for dinner. They are as careful to buff Hannibal and Will’s dress shoes as Cordell is to shine Mason’s, and the tailored shirt collars are folded and pinned to perfection.

When they are wheeled into the Verger formal dining room, Hannibal wears an amused smile, as if pleased with the whole turn of events. Mason watches, eyes narrowed, as the Alpha _somehow_ manages to make the guards appear to be attending him, rather than forcing him.

Once the contraption contracts, forcing Hannibal’s knees to bend so he’s sitting, the Sards release his right hand. Hannibal rolls the wrist, testing for injury and relishing the freedom, and wiggles his fingers. A hand free is all he needs, but he’ll wait to see what happens next.

Mason may be predictable, but his beloved Will is a delightful mystery.

‘I snatched Will Graham right out of your mouth,’ Mason announces, more pleased with himself than he has a right to be. ‘You must be _famished_.’

As he speaks, Cordell brings in a plate of food; half-oysters served with a chili-tomato relish, which the chubby Beta places before Dr Lecter.

‘There is an inescapable parallel between you and Jezebel, Mason,’ Hannibal says, eyeing the plate with open interest. ‘Keen Bible student that you are, you’ll recall dogs ate Jezebel’s face… along with the rest of her.’

Mason scoffs at the analogy.

‘Well, if Jezebel had been right with the Risen Jesus, the Riz would have provided her with a _new_ face,’ he replies, smirking cruelly as the Omega, forced to sit between Hannibal and Mason. ‘As he has provided _mine_.’

He waits, watching with satisfaction as Will Graham’s cheeks pale, the Omega’s eyes flashing gold with fear with dawning realization.

‘The transplant surgery is extremely skillful,’ Mason continues, acknowledging the other Beta entering with a silver platter on which rests a suckling pig roast. ‘Which is why Cordell here will be performing the face-off.’

Hannibal listens to the interaction with mild interest, watching the myriad of emotions play across Will’s face. Fear, revulsion… disdain.

‘Hello.’ Cordell smiles, unkindly, at Will, his blue eyes flat and cold, before he turns on his heel and leaves the room again, off to fetch another dish from the adjoining kitchen.

‘You boys remind me of that German cannibal Alpha who advertised for a mate,’ Mason says, returning his attention to the pair of captured men before him. ‘And then _ate_ him, and his _penis_ , before he died.’ Cordell sets a tureen of sausages before Hannibal, who grins at the analogy, thoroughly enjoying the banter. ‘Tragedy being,’ Mason adds, ‘the penis was _overcooked!’_

Hannibal considers eating one of the sausages, but his restraints allow for little movement beyond lifting his fork to scoop oysters from the plate, and the meat doesn’t smell good enough to expend the effort.

‘Go to all that trouble to eat a mate,’ Mason continues, as if telling a great joke, ‘and you overcook his penis!’ He tilts his head, the closest thing he can manage to a shrug with his broken neck. ‘They ate it, anyway. They had to, they _committed_. But they didn’t enjoy it.’

He directs his words, now, to Dr Lecter, who raises an eyebrow in polite interest.

‘I’m committed to enjoying every _bite_ of _you_ ,’ Mason promises, and Hannibal smiles, pleased to know that such effort is being made over him.

He deserves only the best, after all.

‘You… you’re going to… _eat_ him… with my _face?’_ Will wonders if he’s going to be sick, and he swallows the extra spit wetting his mouth as he glances, sideways, at Mason.

‘Yes,’ the Beta hisses. ‘I got a _taste_ for it after you two had me eat my _nose_.’

‘You must be terribly proud that you could pull this off,’ Hannibal says, drawing Mason’s attention back to himself to give Will some time to process this revelation. ‘It’s dangerous to get exactly what you want,’ he warns, glancing up from under his brows as he uses the side of his fork to cut oyster flesh free of the shell. ‘What will you do after you’ve eaten me?’

‘You could _wreck_ some foster homes and torment some children,’ Will growls, eyes burning bright gold as he remembers the torture Mason inflicted when he was whole.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ Mason purrs, pouting at him with his broken mouth. ‘Or drink _martinis_ made with tears?’

‘But where, Mason, would the hardcore fun come from?’ Hannibal prompts, met with a tutting sound from the scarred Beta.

‘It’s foolish to dilute such an ecstatic time as this with fears about the future,’ Mason says. He glances at his assistant, who warms lemon-scented towels on the side dresser. ‘Er, Cordell? Mr Graham’s looking very dry. A little moisturizer, please.’

‘I’m curious,’ Hannibal asks, keeping an eye on the broad, heavy Beta as he moves to fetch the lotion from another side unit. ‘What will be the first cuts of me you’ll serve?’

‘The first course, of course,’ Cordell says, pausing to smirk down at him, ‘will be your hands and feet.’ He despises the way the Alpha smiles pleasantly at him, not in the least bit concerned for his fate, even when he adds, viciously, ‘Sizzling on a Promethean barbeque.’

Will glances round, wondering how Hannibal truly feels, despite the calm, collected appearance of curiosity. His own belly swarms with nerves and he wants nothing more than for the FBI to burst down the doors and save them both from this nightmare.

 _Please,_ he thinks, watching the muscled Beta threaten his Alpha. _Please, make it stop. Please, just make it stop._

‘The coal is white and very hard,’ Cordell adds, his white uniform doing nothing to hide his erection at the prospect of slowly killing the Alpha. ‘It makes a clear ringing sound when struck.’

Hannibal nods thoughtfully and turns to Mason, adding, slyly,

‘You’ve thought of everything.’

Mason preens under the praise, his blue eyes dancing with excitement.

‘And, after that, we’ll have a little pajama party, you and I,’ he says. ‘You can be in shorties by then. Cordell is going to keep you alive for a _very_ long time.’

Cordell moves around to the other side of Will, opening a small jar of expensive moisturizer as he does so. He leans down, examining the quiet, subdued Omega, and scoops out a dollop.

Before he can apply the cream, however, Will attacks. The Omega lunges up and sideways, clamping his teeth into the flesh of the Beta’s fat cheek. He sets his jaw and grinds his teeth, slicing through muscle in a clean, round disc.

The best morsels of many creatures, after all, are the cheeks.

Cordell screams in pain and recoils, blood spurting through his fingers where he tries to press the wound closed.

Will spits the cheek out onto his empty plate, smearing the gold-rimmed porcelain with blood and saliva, a snarl lingering in the air between them.

_Do not moisturize my fucking face._

Mason raises his eyebrows at Cordell, who clutches the table in a white-fisted grip, quickly losing the feeling in his extremities as shock sets in, and then frowns at the troublesome Omega.

‘Well,’ he says, imagining himself tapping his fingers against the armrest. ‘No pajama party for _you_ , Mr Graham. We’re gonna feed _you_ to the pigs, as soon as Cordell has removed your _face_. In a much more _civilized_ fashion that you just tried to remove _his_.’

Ignoring him, Will looks over at Hannibal, instinctively moving towards the rich purr rising from the Alpha’s throat. Hannibal’s eyes glow red and a proud smile curves his lips up, brightening his expression.

He will remember this moment forever. Will, his teeth bared and bloody, chin stained red and jaw working to grind the last bits of gristle between his molars.

_Beautiful._

***

Cordell leaves the remainder of the dinner service to the Sardinian guards. Mason eats little, choosing to save his appetite for his captive Alpha’s hands and feet, and Hannibal is returned to the pig chamber without dessert.

As the Beta stitches the bruised, misshapen flap of skin back onto his face, the Sards strip Hannibal naked, dose him with another round of Neutralizer, and then suspend him in chains from the ceiling, his arms and legs spread wide.

Cordell takes the honor of branding him. He heats the iron until it glows red, the raised outlines of the Verger name, hog, and crown bright yellow.

The temperature has been dropping rapidly since sunset, and the air shivers around the burning iron. Cordell is wrapped in a thick coat and gloves, and still feels a chill seeping through from the concrete floor. Hannibal, wearing nothing to protect against the cold, refuses to allow his body to shiver.

Retreating once more inside his Memory Palace, he takes refuge in his room dedicated to Florence, and to Will. When the branding iron touches his back, melting flesh before cauterizing the wounds, Hannibal turns his attention inwards. He retreats to the cool shade of his Memory Palace, moving swiftly through the rooms until he locates a new one; the Uffizi Gallery, resplendent with _La Primavera_ , with Will in the place of the teasing demon.

It is his homage to his beloved, and their time together in Florence, and he lies on the cool marble of the floor, gazing up at the frescoed ceiling, where Will once more replaces the angels; wrathful and victorious.

Cordell takes care to press the brand just right; too hard and he risks smudging the imprint of the brand. Too light and the writing won’t be legible. He feels a stab of disappointment, quickly hardening to resolve, when the Alpha merely takes a slow, deliberate breath, silently processing the pain.

_He won’t be silent forever._

‘Mason would’ve preferred to brand your face,’ he says, returning the iron to the white-hot coals of the brazier. ‘He fought bravely, and with his own funds, against the Humane Slaughter Act, and managed to keep face branding legal.’

‘It’s very important to Mason that I have the pigs’ experience,’ Hannibal says, his rich, smoky voice at odds with his vulnerable position. He gives no indication of concern for his exposed genitals or helpless position, and it bothers Cordell more than he’d like. To distract himself, the Beta wanders away to look down at some of the Verger swine bred here on the Farm.

‘Mason has done _beautiful_ things with these creatures,’ he says, considering the sow before him, able to suckle twice as many piglets as her counterparts. He thinks of the pig upstairs, and the special litter held inside, and chuckles. ‘ _Very_ special.’ He turns back to the Alpha and smirks. ‘Truly visionary.’

Hannibal considers him, something missing behind his eyes, leaving them dark and cold.

‘He has a wealth of information and resources in his faceless skull,’ he replies, reminding Cordell of how broken Mason is.

How broken _Hannibal_ made him.

‘The longer you’re respectful,’ Cordell warns, sidling closer with a nasty smile, ‘the longer you’ll keep your tongue.’

‘And when I _do_ lose my tongue?’ Hannibal asks, quirking an eyebrow in question.

Cordell smiles.

‘I’ll boil it and slice it, very thin, marinate it in olive oil, garlic, parsley and vinegar.’

‘Simple and clean,’ Hannibal says, nodding his approval of the dish. ‘And delicious.’

‘Have they told you the drill?’ Cordell asks, seriously wondering how the Alpha can possibly be this calm in the face of such imminent pain and dismemberment. ‘The drill _is_ ,’ he says, ‘in a few hours, I’ll come down here and remove all you’ve got below the elbows and knees. I’ll keep you going with IVs and tourniquets until the very last.’ He smirks down at the Alpha’s cock. ‘Some things are best saved for last.’ Looking up, he tries to ignore the flare of irritation at Lecter’s continued, genial smile. ‘Once you’re dead,’ he continues, ‘I’ll prepare your loins and ribs. _Aged_.’

‘Meats are aged,’ Hannibal agrees, ‘not only for tenderness but also for flavor.’

‘And flavors change,’ Cordell says. ‘Every day, I’ll feed Mason some new part of you.’ His eyes glitter with jealous hatred and sadistic joy. ‘Don’t you worry, Dr Lecter. You will _always_ be cooked to _perfection_.’

He can’t wait to kill and cook the other man. Fucking Alphas always think they’re so much better than Betas.

He’ll show them. He’ll show them all.

Just as soon as he’s punished the rabid Omega, Will Graham.

***

‘I think I might feed the eel some delicacy of Lecter,’ Mason muses, watching the vicious moray glide through the waters of its tank as Margot assists him into his wheelchair. He’s wearing red pajamas, silk-lined to protect his delicate, scarred skin; perfect for a gentle recovery after his face transplant surgery. He’s been watching with satisfaction as Hannibal is stripped, branded and then secured in an uncomfortable, disabling position in the freezing barn. ‘His _genitals_ , perhaps.’

Margot studiously ignores him, pushing the support bars into place with more force than necessary.

Mason narrows his eyes down at his sister. She seems… different, somehow. More confident. Or, at least, less vulnerable.

_That fucking bitch._

‘How long have you and Dr Bloom been mated?’ he asks, and Margot’s sudden tensing confirms his suspicions.

His sweet, delicate baby sister. Bonded to a _female_ Alpha?

Papa would be so disappointed.

‘Not long,’ Margot lies, sitting back on her heels to reach for the front support bar of the chair.

‘Longer than _that_ , Cordell says,’ Mason replies, his lipless mouth curving into a sly grin. At least, that’s what he’s aiming for.

Once he has his new face, expressions will be much easier again.

‘Does Dr Bloom want children?’ he asks, casually reminding Margot of the likely reason she sought out the other woman in the first place. Does Dr Bloom know she’s being played? How delicious if she doesn’t?

Mason wonders if she’ll Cut Margot’s crest herself, or if he’ll be able to do it. Alphas don’t take betrayal lightly, and there’s no way Margot’s been honest with her new beau.

‘I’m sure you’ve had a chance to check under the hood by now,’ Mason adds, smirking at his sister. ‘How’s the uterus? Intact?’ He quirks his eyebrows, blue eyes gleaming. ‘Are the hips _childbearing?_ Roomy?’

_Did she make you scream as much as you did when I took your virginity?_

‘Land the plane, Mason,’ Margot snaps, irritated by her brother’s incessant rambling. The Beta isn’t as scary as he used to be. Her Alpha will protect her, now, and soon there’ll be no Mason to hold her back.

‘Oh, you’ve got a _big_ surprise coming to you, Margot,’ Mason promises, and then wets his lipless mouth with his slimy, pointed tongue, making a smacking sound as he does. ‘Would it spoil anything for you if I told you I’d already found us a surrogate?’ At Margot’s concerned frown and flash of golden eyes, he knows she’s hooked. She can’t help but be curious. Omegas are self-destructive by design. ‘Not for my sperm,’ he adds, ‘but for _your_ eggs.’

‘I don’t _have_ any,’ Margot sighs, rolling her eyes as she turns away. She’s bored of this routine. Bored of the constant pain it brings to know she’ll never be whole again. ‘You _took_ them.’

‘I most certainly did,’ Mason says, his voice rising as Margot turns her back on him. ‘But I didn’t humpty-dumpty them! I just went and found them a new basket.’

Margot stops in her tracks, bile scratching the back of her throat.

Mason put her eggs in another woman?

She turns slowly, her heart pounding and sweat making the gold silk blouse stick to her back. Her brother smirks, as best he can with his broken face, and she knows he’s telling her the truth.

He’s always extra gleeful when he hurts her with the truth.

‘I told you I wanted to give you a Verger baby,’ Mason says, ‘our own baby. Yours and mine.’ He forces a grin, tilting his head in thought. ‘Well… mostly yours.’

_Mason is holding my baby hostage… Because he knows Alana and I are planning to leave._

Margot’s blood runs cold and panic chokes her. She needs her baby. She needs to protect her offspring.

She needs to find a way to kill Mason, once and for all.

Approaching slowly, holding the padded waist bar like a weapon between both hands, she advances on her brother. Mason watches carefully, certain he’s still in control of the situation. Margot won’t risk hurting him, not yet; she doesn’t know where her child is, yet. If anything happens to him, the baby will surely die, and she won’t risk that.

‘Where’s the surrogate, Mason?’ Margot whispers, golden eyes locked onto the Beta’s cruel blue ones. Mason considers the question, glancing off to the side, and says, deliberately,

‘She’s resting at the moment.’

Hope flares, quickly replaced by fresh fear, and a tear slides down Margot’s cheek.

‘She’s here?’

_My baby is here? I could see it? Hold it? Nurse and protect it?_

To have her dream so close makes the torture all the crueler.

‘She’s on the farm,’ Mason confirms, inclining his head in a nod. He watches as Margot’s fingers twitch into fists of impotent rage and smells the hot sugar of Omegan fury.

‘I wanna see her,’ Margot demands, and Mason snaps the trap shut around her.

Poor, stupid Margot. She never learns. Her emotions are her greatest weakness.

And Omegas are so very emotional.

‘First, I think you need to prepare yourself,’ he croons, feigning an air of brotherly concern. ‘Psychologically, I mean. This is going to be a very emotional experience for you, Margot. I have to think about appropriate timing.’

Margot glares down at him, held still with useless, shaking rage, and then slams the support bar down into its fixtures, uncaring that she crushes Mason’s wasted arm underneath.

‘Don’t think too long, smiley,’ she warns, and Mason laughs, pulling his hand free to clap her in applaud.

‘Oh, that’s the _spirit_ , Margot!’ he praises. ‘Your maternal instinct’s revving up.’ He smirks at her breasts, the cleavage scant inches from his face, and then winks at her blush. ‘I love it.’

Margot’s face twitches, her upper lip pulling back from small fangs as anger battles with fear. She can’t act yet. Not yet.

But soon.

Mason’s time has officially run out.

***

Will is left alone in the dining room, for what feels like hours after Mason leaves to prepare for surgery and Hannibal is returned to the pig barn for the next round of torture.

Cordell has taken his flap of cheek with him to reattach it to his face and Will sits where he is chained, his bladder increasingly full and uncomfortable, dried blood itching along his nose and chin.

He’d thought he would die in Florence. At Hannibal’s hand, consumed by his former Alpha.

This is so much worse.

Mason’s lackey is going to remove his face, attach it to Mason and then use it to consume Hannibal…

_I never wanted to eat him. Not him. Not my Alpha._

He misses the twins. Misses his dogs. He wishes he could slip into the river and be with them but whenever he ventures inside his mind, he finds himself wandering the cool stone corridors of Hannibal’s Memory Palace.

He’d once said that he couldn’t get Hannibal out of his head. Now, it seems, he can’t get out of the Alpha’s.

His stomach rumbles with hunger. When did he last eat? Before reuniting with Hannibal at the Uffizi Gallery… Before meeting with Jack?

Had his last meal really been a prepackaged sandwich from a cheap bistro when he’d finally arrived in Florence?

_I’m sorry, Gracie. I’m sorry, Daniel. I wish I could have been a better father to you. I wish I’d stayed at home with you and Pops, to take care of you. But I didn’t. I hunted down the man who Cut me, who gutted me and left me for dead and now I’m going to lose everything._

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually he becomes aware that he’s no longer alone.

Alana Bloom, walking now, albeit with a cane, enters the dining hall with a sad, disappointed expression on her face. Her eyes flare the same red as her lipstick at the sight of his wounds and Will smells the sharp, burning scent of her Alphan anger.

Did Mason capture her, too? Or is it what he fears? Is she as coldly furious as her expression suggests?

He has to know. He has to ask.

‘What are _you_ doing here?’ he whispers, shaking his head at his former friend.

Alana considers Will from a safe distance, her hand tightening on the silver hand of her walking stick before she forces it to relax.

Will brought this on himself. He should have stayed well enough alone. After what Hannibal did to him… did to his _baby?_ He deserves whatever he gets.

She can almost make herself believe the lie.

Still, there’s no use lying to Will. He’ll only see through the façade if she does. And she wants him to know that she’s not okay. That _nothing_ can ever be okay after what Hannibal did.

‘I’m Mason Verger’s psychiatrist,’ she says, receiving the disapproving hum and frown from Will that she’d expected.

‘Is that part of _his_ therapy,’ the Omega asks, ‘or _yours?’_

‘I think we’re all working through some issues,’ Alana replies, eyes flickering crimson as if to remind the Omega of the biological changes undergone since the attack. ‘I’m putting an emphasis on self-preservation.’

As she speaks, Alana lowers herself into a chair. Her back may be mostly healed but standing for long periods still hurts and she wants to be in best shape for protecting Margot.

‘Jack’s alive,’ she adds softly, knowing Will would want to know that about his friend and mentor.

‘Good for Jack,’ Will mutters, his own hands tightening within the leather cuffs of his restraints. He works his jaw, choosing his next words carefully, and, when he looks up at Alana, he doesn’t keep any of the hurt and anger of her betrayal from his voice. ‘You helped Mason Verger find us.’

_You helped him hurt us._

‘I helped Mason find _Hannibal_ ,’ Alana replies, tilting her head at Will in cool consideration. She’d thought their Bond was broken; severed with the Cutting of his crest.

Why was Will still so devoted to the Alpha who had ruined his life?

‘We followed Bâtard-Montrachet when we should’ve just followed _you_.’

‘Almost as ugly as what Mason wants to _do_ to us,’ Will muses, ignoring the Alpha’s implied suggestion of obsession with his former mate, ‘is the fact that he _can_ do it with the tacit agreement of people sworn to uphold the law. _Alphas_ ,’ he adds, sharply, ‘who are supposed to be _biologically_ wired to protect Omegas.’

‘I was trying to get to Hannibal before you,’ Alana replies, wishing she sounded angry instead of sad. Wishing she didn’t feel such pity for the broken, abused and, ultimately, condemned Omega. ‘I knew you couldn’t stop yourself, so I had to try.’

‘By facilitating torture and death?’ Will scoffs, glaring at her from under a bloodstained bandage, his face purple and swollen around the eye and on the cheek; courtesy of Mason’s thugs.

‘I can abide the thought of Hannibal tortured,’ Alana says coldly, meeting his gaze. ‘Not necessarily to death.’ She swallows. ‘I’d say he has it coming… wouldn’t you?’

_Please, Will… Don’t be too far gone. I don’t want to lose you to his darkness. He killed your baby, Will. He killed Abigail. He broke your mind open and toyed with you for months._

At the Omega’s pained, torn expression, the tears glittering in bloodshot, gold eyes, she sighs.

It’s too late for Will. He’s been swallowed whole by the beast and he doesn’t even feel himself being devoured.

‘Or maybe you wouldn’t,’ she whispers, realizing she truly has lost her friend.

Will frowns, shaking his head slightly to clear his blurry vision.

‘What did you think would happen?’ he asks, genuinely curious as to the scene imagined in the naïve Alpha’s mind.

Alana confirms his worst suspicion.

‘I thought Jack Crawford and the FBI would come to the rescue.’ The Alpha sighs. ‘But the finer details of what I thought would happen have evolved.’

Will senses her regret like a shark tasting blood. He raises his head and lowers his defenses as he does, releasing a dam of fear and pain in a tidal wave of scent designed to trigger in her the fabled Alpha protective urges.

‘Then _you_ have to evolve, Alana,’ he begs, doing nothing to keep his voice from shaking. This is his only hope; his last chance to get help for him and for Hannibal.

He whines, soft and low, and watches with desperate hope as Alana’s pulse quickens and her cheeks flush.

No matter what’s happened between them, no matter their differences, Will is still an Omega, and she is an Alpha.

And he is asking her for her help.

Seeing the resolve harden on Alana’s face, Will dares a small, hungry smile. Hannibal may allow harm to come to himself, but he won’t tolerate Will being hurt by any hand but his own.

They can use that to their advantage.

‘You have to spill blood,’ he says, laying the options before Alana like cards on a table. ‘Either by your hand or… someone else’s.’

_A life for a life. Find a way to free Hannibal and he will save me. He’ll save us all._

***

Margot waits just long enough to be sure Mason is in the makeshift operating theatre before heading to the pig barn. She wraps up in a fur coat to protect against the chill, pitying Dr Lecter in his freezing stall.

The pigs all have heat lamps above them, but the Alpha is kept in the bitter cold. He is on his knees on soiled straw, arms lashed up behind him, but head forced to bow by the leather collar attached to the gate. It is a deliberately excruciating position, one that hampers his breathing and allows for no rest.

An exhausted Alpha is weak, after all, and easily beaten by Betas.

Margot purrs, just once, to soothe the Sardinian guard who looks up at the sound of her heels on the tiled floor.

‘ _Bonasera, signor_ ,’ she says, lowering her golden eyes demurely to lure him into a false sense of security.

The ploy works; the guard inclines his head and allows her to enter the room with a mutual greeting.

_‘Bonasera, signora Verger.’_

As two gold-tipped shoes come to a stop before the bars of his stall gate, Hannibal forces a complimentary purr up from his choked, uncomfortable throat.

‘Thank you for coming, Margot,’ he says, greeting her pleasantly, as if they are meeting for coffee, not over his burned, beaten body. ‘It doesn’t seem that long since I treated you,’ the Alpha continues. ‘Have you started taking the chocolate, as Mason likes to say...?’ He sighs. ‘After you fought him for so long?’

‘Are we in therapy, now?’ Margot asks, tears swimming in her eyes at the sight of the Verger mark Dr Lecter’s back.

She remembers the feeling of that branding iron on her own skin, all too well.

Hannibal sighs again, though Margot isn’t sure the sound is just him struggling for breath.

‘You tell me,’ the Alpha says, and the soft, conspiratorial tone reminds Alana of the red and gray office in Baltimore. The comfortable leather chairs and the sense of peace, safety and understanding she felt when in the Alpha’s presence.

_Even when he encouraged me to kill my brother, he did it without making me feel like a monster._

She’s always felt like Dr Lecter understands her. Sees and accepts her for who she really is.

She doesn’t want him to die like this. And she needs his help to stop Mason.

Getting onto her knees, Margot lowers herself to the same level as the captive Alpha. She leans closer, confiding in him, and, for a moment, it’s just like old times.

‘Mason promised to give something back to me,’ she confesses, seeking his advice and guidance like a sinner before a priest. ‘Something that he stole.’ At Hannibal’s questioning look up from under bloodstained bangs and a pain-furrowed brow, Margot explains, miserably, ‘There was a surrogate all along. It’s a Verger baby… It’s _my_ baby.’

Hannibal thinks about this. Thinks about how to phrase it to get Margot where he wants her.

The truth will work in his favor, and he wields it with deadly accuracy.

‘Mason will deny you,’ he says, simply and without emotion. ‘He will always deny you.’ He sighs again. ‘You know you will have to kill him.’

Margot’s eyes shimmer with tears. She knew the reality, but having Dr Lecter say it, so bluntly, makes it harder to hear.

She’ll never get what she truly wants from Mason. He enjoys torturing her too much for that. He won’t risk losing her favorite toy.

‘Are you saying you’d do it for me?’ she asks, voice wobbling as she half-heartedly jokes about the only possible conclusion to their situation. Her mouth draws down and tears fall. ‘I could never trust you.’

Hannibal tries to shift, his shoulders on fire from the immense pressure across his back.

‘No, of course not,’ he agrees. Then, ‘But you could trust me never to deny that I did it.’ He swallows, pushing through the discomfort. ‘It would actually be more therapeutic for you to kill him yourself. You’ll remember I recommended that in session.’ 

It’s Margot’s turn to sigh, releasing more tears down her blotchy cheeks.

‘Wait until I could get away with it, you said,’ she recalls miserably.

Hannibal goes to shrug and winces at the flare of agony down his spine.

‘What difference would one more murder charge make to me?’ he reasons, glancing up at her again, his eyes swirling crimson and black. ‘I’m the only other suspect you’ve got. You can do it when it suits you, and I’ll write a letter, gloating about how much I enjoyed killing him myself.’

The solution seems so simple. So logical… It’s the only possible option she has, Margot thinks.

Another pair of heels clack on the marble tiles. The Sardinian guard looks up, more alert at the sight of Dr Bloom, the female Alpha, wearing a smart black and white coat, leather gloves and leaning heavily on her cane.

‘Bonasera,’ Alana murmurs, watching her Omega kneeling before Hannibal, deep in conversation about her current predicament.

Before the Sardinian can do more than flinch, Alana uses her superior speed to snatch up the tranquilizer gun from the side table and shoots a dart into the guard’s leg.

The dart plunges sedative into his system and the Sard slumps, unconscious before he hits the floor.

‘He has a pocketknife,’ Hannibal says, watching her carefully from his stall. Alana’s righteousness smells like woodfire and honey; she believes that what she’s doing is the right thing to protect the Omegas she cares about.

No matter who she has to hurt to do it.

Keeping her eyes on Margot and the restrained Alpha behind her, Alana reaches down and retrieves the small blade from the guard’s pocket. As she draws closer, Margot gets back to her feet, tucking herself closer to her Alpha’s side.

Hannibal looks up for as long as his strained muscles will allow, and then concedes to bowing his head before her in forced submission. It may endear Alana to his cause, after all, and he’s nothing if not pragmatic.

Alana stares down at Hannibal, rage and terror battling for dominance as she thinks of all the things he’s done. He’s a serial killer. A cannibal. He fucked her to distract her. To use her as an alibi, even as he drove Will insane with Heat hormones. He had his mate _institutionalized_ , killed Beverly Katz and Abel Gideon, and dismembered Miriam Lass.

He Cut Will as a punishment for Will’s betrayal and murdered his own _baby_.

Propping her walking cane against the gate, Alana crouches before Hannibal. She wants to look him in the eye when she frees him.

She wants him to know that this is _her_ choice. _Her_ decision. Not his.

‘I was trying to save Will from you,’ she explains, her eyes glowing red. ‘But, right now, you’re the only one who can save _him_.’

_I don’t have your stomach for violence._

Hannibal waits, considering the request, and Alana realizes, helplessly, that he’s going to make her ask.

Make her beg.

‘Promise me you’ll save him,’ she whispers, staring deep into his eyes and feeling, absurdly, like she was making a deal with the Devil. When he waits another moment, the tension stretching out in a thin, crackling line of potential between them, she admits her final defeat. ‘ _Please_.’

‘I promise,’ Hannibal says, and Alana sees, within his dark, soulless eyes, that his mind is no more bound by fear or kindness than Milton’s were by physics.

_I have the chance to cage the Devil, and yet here I am, releasing him back into the world._

For Will.

‘And I _always_ keep my promises, Alana,’ Hannibal adds, his voice a dark purr filled with the promise of violence.

_Be blind, Alana. Don’t be brave._

‘Just cut the ropes on one arm,’ Hannibal continues, ‘give me the knife and leave. I can do the rest.’

Alana rises, leaning heavily on the cane, and, before Margot can object, unlocks the gate. Crouching close to him again, she glares into his irritatingly placid face and says, very deliberately,

‘Are you going to kill Mason?’

If he isn’t, the deal is off.

‘Margot is,’ Hannibal says, lightly and simply. ‘Snatch some of my hair,’ he continues, ‘back from the hairline, if you don’t mind. Get some skin.’ He swallows, holding his head up to meet Alana’s steady gaze, no matter the pain in his neck. ‘Put it in Mason’s hand after he’s dead.’

Alana narrows her eyes, wondering at the man before her. The Alpha who could be so cruel and manipulative, and yet, right now, is offering to sacrifice himself for her and the happiness of her Omega.

‘Could I have _ever_ understood you?’ she asks, and Hannibal thinks of their time together. Of Alana’s narrow-minded ideals and stifling values.

He thinks of Will, and all his wicked darkness. Of the way he delights in doing bad things to bad people, and yet judges himself with all the mercy of the dungeon scales at Threave.

‘No.’

Considering him for another, long moment, Alana makes a choice.

She has to get Margot out of here, and she has to save Will.

She leans forwards and rips out a chunk of Hannibal’s hair, bringing with it a scrap of bloody skin. Taking satisfaction in the flash of pain across Hannibal’s face, she straightens up and pockets the evidence.

Time to end this game.

Sawing through the rope securing Hannibal’s left arm back, she places the knife on the sawdust in front of him and steps back as Hannibal quickly sets to work releasing himself. The Alpha’s scent changes, thickening with Rut despite the Neutralizer flooding his system, and Alana’s skin prickles at the sense of danger radiating from him.

Hannibal uses his teeth to pull the cut rope from his wrist and then uses the knife to begin cutting through the ties holding his head down. A slash and his second arm is free. He gets to his feet, muscles grinding and bones cracking as things settle back into place, and unbuckles the thick, ugly collar around his neck.

It's an old Omegan brace, still carrying with it the lingering scent of Margot’s childhood pain. Hannibal rolls his shoulders, a hungry smile settling on his lips as strength floods him with heat.

It’s his turn, now.

***

Cordell collects Will from the dining room, pushing him, none-too-gently, into a makeshift operating theater in a barn not far from the house.

‘Omegas always think they’re so _special_ ,’ he says, shoving Will’s head forwards to expose the scarred, vulnerable skin at the base of his neck. ‘With their fancy _slick_ and their _Crests_.’ He chuckles. ‘Well, you don’t have a Crest anymore, do you?’

Will’s stomach twists at the cruel reminder and he bares his teeth, thrashing in his bonds. He doesn’t want Cordell anywhere near his nape but there’s nothing he can do about it.

With a sickening swoop, he realizes the Beta is attaching a clamp to his nape, squeezing the still-tender flesh in a vice far tighter than anything Hannibal ever used.

‘N-!’

His voice fails as the nerves are pinched and, just like that, he loses all control over his limbs. He can still feel everything – every jostle and scratch as Cordell removes his suit jacket, tie and shirt – but he can’t do anything about it.

_Think of the river. Wade into the stream._

He’s desperate for an escape but his mind can’t retreat. He can’t stop _feeling_ the painful pressure on his neck. The cold air against his exposed flesh and the sticky electrodes placed onto his chest.

Cordell lies him flat on his back, the gurney acting as an operating chair, and he straps Will’s head in place with a tight bandage pressing down on his forehead stitches.

The heart monitor blips rapidly, testament to Will’s anxious state, and, for a while after Cordell leaves, it’s the only sound in the chilled room.

Approaching footsteps warn him of the Beta’s return, but Will can’t even look over towards him. He can blink, thankfully, but he can’t do anything except stare up at the clear plastic draped over the steel frame creating the surgical space.

 _I’m going to die here,_ he thinks, wondering if he’s resigned himself to that fact or is still in shock. _I’m going to die and I’ll never see my family again._

He’s glad his Pops will take good care of the twins. There’s some comfort in that.

Cordell steps up beside Will’s prone body and sighs down at him as he snaps his latex gloves into place over green scrubs.

‘Good news and bad news,’ he says, piggy little eyes travelling over the Omega’s slim torso, lingering on the crooked, curving scar across his abdomen. ‘The good news is: until recently, a full face transplant was almost unthinkable. But,’ he grins, ‘medical science is a fast-moving train.’ Leaning down, he pinches Will’s cheek between forefinger and thumb in a twisted parody of affection. ‘First,’ he growls, ‘I’ll lift your pretty mush right off. _Then_ …’ He strokes and cups the Omega’s chin. ‘… I’ll expose the blood vessels and major connections of Mason’s face, and then lay yours straight on top.’

He straightens up, staring down with dark, glittering eyes.

‘You really are _done_ , y’know.’ Hatred twists his lips. ‘That’s the bad news.’

His watch beeps and he smiles.

‘Time to fetch Mason.’ Then, as if sharing a great joke, adds, ‘Don’t you go anywhere.’

He walks away again, and, for another eternity, there’s only the click of Will’s blinking eyes, the beep of the heart monitor and the rush of air in and out of defiant lungs.

_I’m still alive. There’s still a chance that, somehow, I can get out of this._

The hope fizzles and dies when Cordell returns, pushing Mason before him, the crippled Beta prepped for surgery and wearing red pajama scrubs to hide any blood from the operation.

‘Ah,’ the Verger says, his gaze lighting up when he sees Will, clamped and immobile, ready to be exploited for his own benefit. ‘Cordell told me if I waited long enough, he could grow me a new face from my own cells.’ He looks sideways at the other man, trusting his attendant to care for him.

Cordell slips a fresh needle into the canular in Mason’s arm, attaching him to an IV drip of fluid.

‘But I was adamant it was _your_ face I wanted,’ Mason says, gazing at the profile of the Omega, with the light shining behind him and gold radiating from his eyes. ‘I was looking at _your_ face while you were watching me cut _mine_ off, and I thought, “ooh, that’s a _nice_ face”.’

‘You’re going under now, Mr Verger,’ Cordell says, readying the anesthetic. ‘When you wake up, your face will be bound and uncomfortable.’

Mason nods, just once, preparing himself for his transformation.

If he takes enough of the Omega, will be become something more than Beta himself?

_In the Bible, Jesus died an Omega and rose again, an Alpha. The highest caste of mankind. Recreated in God’s own image._

‘Have you accepted Jesus, Mr Graham?’ he asks, his head starting to swim as the sedative enters his bloodstream. ‘Do you have _faith?_ I do. I’m _free_.’ Darkness presses against the edges of his mind and he feels himself slipping into a warm bath, cradled and comforted in the presence of the Divine. ‘ _Hallelujah_.’

Once Mason settles into silence, Cordell moves around to the Omega’s table. He takes another syringe, attached to an IV bag hanging above Will’s head, and uncaps the needle.

‘ _This_ will support the clamp to immobilize your body,’ he says, flicking out the air bubbles from inside, ‘but you’ll continue to _feel_ everything.’

He slides the needle into the crook of Will’s elbow, injecting him full of a paralytic that makes his muscles seize and cramp. The bite on his cheek, expertly sewn back on and barely hidden beneath a Band-Aid, seems to pulse, and he says, very deliberately, as he stares down into Will’s wide, terrified eyes,

‘I’m going to cut off your face without anesthesia, Mr Graham.’

_I’m going to make you wish you were dead, and then deny it to you._

***

The air is thick with the taste of copper. Screams of pain resonate within the walls, fading to choked, burbling moans as shock claims the lives of the less fortunate Sardinian guards.

Hannibal had killed most of them with quick, brutal blows to their heads. His clothes, rescued from the bag in the corner of the pig barn, are damp with blood and sweat, and he wipes a forearm across his forehead, leaving behind a smear of red.

The hammer in his hand drips with bits of ragged scalp.

‘I told you I would kill you quickly,’ he says, pacing around the crippled guard sobbing at his feet. ‘If you cared for Will when I asked.’ He smiles, raising the blunt weapon above his head. ‘Much as I want to make this last, I have a schedule to keep.’

He brings it smashing down onto the other man’s skull and bone splinters. Blood sprays, and the force expels one of the Alpha’s bloodshot eyeballs before he collapses onto his back, limbs still twitching as dying nerves fire.

Satisfied with his work, Hannibal steps over the corpse and begins to hunt his next target. Will’s scent is getting stronger, leading him out of the patio doors and into the icy winter air of the Verger estate terrace.

His breath billows and heat shimmers around him, testament to the fire raging through his veins. His dark dragon revels in the glory of slaughter and he bares red teeth at the night sky, his belly full of fresh meat.

_Hold on, Will. I’m coming for you._

***

Spurred on by the broken shouts and gurgling screams of dying men downstairs, Margot and Alana race through the bedrooms of the upper floors. The surrogate has to be around here somewhere; she _has_ to be. Mason wouldn’t risk the baby’s health and wellbeing to an outbuilding, and if she’s a willing host then he’ll want to keep her warm and comfortable.

They burst into one of the rooms near to their childhood nursery and, at the sight before her, all the air goes out of Margot’s lungs.

 _No_.

A giant sow, her belly round and swollen with young, lies sedated on a canopied bed. Above her, nestled around the string of little heat lamps, is a pig-inspired mobile, and an ultrasound monitor shows the grainy image of a fetus.

She’s been bred specifically for this purpose. Her body has been genetically altered to enable the surrogacy of a human child and she’s been a placid host for nine months.

Alana, bile scratching the back of her throat, approaches the monitor. It’s a little boy, but she can’t see signs of life.

‘Is he alive?’ Margot whispers, her eyes shining gold, and Alana turns at the sharp scent of distress from her mate.

She inspects the vital signs on the second monitor, her chest tightening and heart sinking at the flat, hopeless lines on black.

‘There’s no fetal heartbeat,’ she says, looking down at the sow.

How long has the baby been dead? Had Mason planned for it to die now, just before giving it to Margot? Or had its death been an accident?

Panic snatches the air from Margot’s lungs. She feels suffocated, like she herself is trapped inside the stifling, rotting womb.

Like she’s trapped beneath Mason again, just like when they were children. His teeth in her neck, his hands pinning her down as he violates her again and again.

‘Take it out!’ she hisses, and Alana knows that if she doesn’t cut open the pig, her Omega will claw it open with her bare hands. She needs her baby. She needs to hold her baby, just once, before she says goodbye.

***

Cordell hums to himself as he draws little dashes around the edge of Will’s face, neat and precise where he wants to make the incisions. At the delicious, salty stench of fear from the paralyzed Omega, and the barely choked back whimper, he lets a smug, cruel grin stretch his lips back from yellow teeth.

‘You be sure to let me know if this hurts, won’t you?’ he taunts, eagerly anticipating the sounds of agony soon to be ripped from the stupid ‘meg’s _precious Omegan_ throat. The screams that will, inevitably, follow, even as he ignores every plea for mercy and separates flesh from nerve.

 _Fuck you,_ Will thinks, fighting to hold in the pathetic little whines crawling past tightly-clenched lips. _Fuck you, I won’t scream. I won’t. I won’t. No matter how bad it gets._

The first slice of the scalpel is cold, sharp pain. He takes a sharp breath in, woozy from the knowledge that it’s started, that’s it’s really happening, and wonders how someone can be so much worse than Hannibal.

 _Please,_ he thinks, throwing himself through the trapdoor of his Memory Palace and bolting it shut behind him, scrambling down the passageways towards the welcoming darkness of the dungeons and the memory of his Alpha lingering there. _Please, let me pass out._

The blade goes deeper, the pain reaches a new level and then he’s floating, drifting away into blissful nothingness, and the last thing he remembers is a purr. Low, and deep, and proud.

_Hannibal._

***

As the scalpel cuts muscle from bone, peeled back to reveal a row of teeth clenched in a rictus of pain, Alana slices open the sow’s belly to get at the uterus. She tugs stinking intestines out of the carcass and digs through the slop to reach the fetus in its sac of fluid.

The little body is cold, and feels achingly fragile in her shaking hands. Margot waits with a towel, ready to wrap up her brother’s final act of torture. She makes instinctive hushing sounds, tucking the material around the tiny limbs and cradling it to her chest. She can’t keep the horror from her face and broken mewls slip past her lips even as she drips tears onto the baby’s head.

She would have been such a good mother. She knows she would have, if Mason had given her the chance.

_You took everything from me. Hannibal’s right; you’ll always deny me._

***

Hannibal kicks open the door to the makeshift operating theater, startling Cordell. The Beta, dressed in green surgical scrubs with a bloody scalpel in his hand, turns from the bound, immobile figure of Will, and Hannibal sees the first cut made on his beloved’s cheek.

_One cut too many._

Moving quickly and without ceremony, he crosses the distance and swings the hammer at the burly Beta’s face.

Cordell ducks, avoiding the blow, and slashes with the scalpel. Hannibal, predicting the move, feints to the left and knocks a tray of instruments into the other man so that he staggers. Then, before Cordell can recover, he drops to a crouch and swings low with the hammer once again.

Metal connects with the Beta’s legs and his shin bone shatters. Cordell falls with a scream of furious pain, grabbing the broken, bleeding mess, and Hannibal hits him once more, catching him across the temple with a calculated amount of force to make him dizzy and helpless, but without knocking him out.

_I’ve got you, Will._

He looks down into the sightless, glassy eyes of his beloved, taking a moment to admire the other man’s bound, helpless position, and then tightens the crest clamp another degree, forcing Will to lose consciousness.

His former mate has been through enough pain. Time for him to rest, now. Hannibal will protect him.

Cordell is heavy but Hannibal’s anger lends additional strength to his limbs. He heaves the fat Beta onto a spare surgical table and straps him down, securing him, just as Cordell did with Will. Then, seeing the original intention in the panicked blue eyes, he does to him what Cordell had planned to do to Will.

The scalpel slides through skin. Blood flows, a delicate thin line. Hannibal, his hands covered in surgical gloves, gently levers skin away from facial bones, revealing teeth clenched in agony and a jaw beneath. Cordell’s face comes away from its moorings, transplanted, very carefully, onto Mason’s hideous, mutilated one, smearing blood where it touches the raw, waiting skin.

He fastens the dying man’s face in place with a few neat stitches and then secures the transplant with the plastic mask and neck cuff. It won’t do to have the skin slide off before Mason has a chance to appreciate his effort.

‘Oh, Mason,’ he murmurs, gazing down at the broken, defeated Beta lying vulnerable and unconscious before him. ‘You just can’t win, can you?’

He senses Alana and Margot in the doorway and turns to find the two women hovering at the threshold. Alana’s face pales when she looks beyond Hannibal’s bloody gloves and scrubs to see Cordell, faceless, the monitors showing a distinct lack of life signs.

Shock can be such a deadly thing, after all.

‘As much as I detest the idea of inbreeding,’ Hannibal says, taking care to move slowly whilst ignoring the gun held in Alana’s steady right hand, ‘I would recommend using Mason’s sperm to fertilize your eggs, Margot.’ He quirks an eyebrow. ‘Best way to ensure a true Verger heir. His –’ He nods down at the masked Beta, and then at the tear-stained face of the Omega behind Alana. ‘And yours.’

‘Mason has no feeling below the chest,’ Alana says, frowning at him. ‘How do you propose we resolve that?’

‘Simple.’ Hannibal holds up the wicked cattle-prod he had taken from one of the more aggressive guards. The man had screamed beautifully when Hannibal burned his eye out with the probes. ‘A jolt of electricity to the prostate gland and Bob’s your Uncle.’ He grins, his red eyes dancing with good humor. ‘Or, rather, Mason’s the father of your baby.’

Margot and Alana share an uneasy glance, but they both know it’s the safest way to ensure an uncontested heir. With Margot’s eggs cryogenically stored they can try first with Mason’s sperm – his living descendent would secure the fortune – and then move onto her own supply if it doesn’t take.

‘Show me how,’ Alana says, handing Margot the gun and stepping closer to the man who tried to kill her. The man who killed and _ate_ one of her closest friends, and who fucked her just to distract and confuse her.

The man she set free, to save Will’s life.

‘I’ll show you the basics,’ Hannibal says, unceremoniously rolling Mason’s limp, unresponsive body onto its side, heedless of the way it crushes his arm under him. ‘But then Will and I really must be going.’ He looks across at the unconscious Omega, still strapped to the surgical gurney and bleeding from the latest cut to his face. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

***

Something doesn’t feel right.

Mason comes round from the anesthetic with dry mouth and a headache. He’s upright in his wheelchair, his face crushed under warm pressure. A mask blocks his vision at the edges and Mason tastes copper when he flicks his tongue out.

Why can he still feel the scarred remnants of his old lips? Where are the gauze bandages he was expecting? Where’s the smell of antiseptic?

More importantly, where the hell is Cordell?

Breathing hard and fast, fighting down panic at how vulnerable he feels, Mason reaches up with his good hand and tugs the neck brace from his throat. He still has the plastic mask over his face, the one he’d worn for months to protect the tender, still-healing skin following grafts, but he shouldn’t need it for this surgery.

Pulling it off, Mason gasps for breath that feels blocked at the pinprick holes of his collapsed nose. There’s still something on his face, feeling like another mask.

‘Cordell?’

He tries to keep the panic from his voice, but he can hear a wobble and he despises it.

_‘CORDELL?!’_

Reaching for the little vanity mirror beside him, he lifts it up and gapes, horrified, at the reflection.

Cordell’s face stares back at him, eyeholes wide and unseeing, mouth slack and bitten cheek tinged blue with death.

The severed face of his personal attendant slides off, leaving Mason’s forehead and cheeks smeared with blood, and panic throws Mason’s caution to the wind.

_No! No! No! No, no, no! This can’t be happening!_

***

High in a tree on the edge of the Verger estate, Chiyoh trains her rifle on the bloodied figure in black carrying an unconscious Omega in his arms.

Hannibal’s face is lined with exhaustion and smeared with blood, his eyes shining red through the streaks. Rut, it seems, is the only thing keeping him going. He wades through knee-deep drifts, his breath billowing and sweat pouring down his forehead, occasionally looking down as if to remind himself of the precious cargo in his arms.

Staggering, he doesn’t have the strength to outrun the guards chasing after him. Will may be slight, but he’s still a man and his dead weight is clearly a strain on injured shoulders. Hannibal can’t keep going for much longer; a lesser Alpha would have collapsed by now, but even his strength has its limit.

Chiyoh squeezes the trigger and red mist stains the air, freezing into petals that spray across the white snow. Another shot and the last guard falls, leaving Hannibal free to continue his journey towards the service road beyond the trees, and the old pickup truck that Chiyoh has waiting for him there.

_It's good to have family._

***

‘Cordell!’ Mason wails, throwing the mirror aside so he can wheel himself over to the dresser to grab his emergency handgun. ‘Cordell!’

‘Hi, Mason.’

Alana’s voice is cool and calm, and she stares with undisguised contempt at the bloodstained Beta swirling around in his electric wheelchair, looking every inch the scared, pathetic little boy he is.

At the sight of his Alphan psychiatrist, standing there like a prissy idiot in the doorway, Mason’s fear gives way to rage.

‘What the hell’s going on out there?’ he demands, vowing punishment on everyone in the house. ‘Where’s Cordell?’

‘Cordelle’s dead,’ Alana says, the crimson rings in her eyes thickening to swallow the blue of her irises. ‘They’re all dead out there. Hannibal got away.’

 _‘What?!’_ Mason shrieks. ‘Well get on the horn to Washington! Get four of those bastards with guns up here! NOW! Send the helicopter!’

Alana ignores his demands, looking over towards her Omega as Margot enters from the other doorway.

With her cheeks puffy and streaked with mascara, golden eyes bloodshot and still leaking tears, Margot glares balefully at her brother. She wants him to see, one last time, how much he’s hurt her.

She wants him to know, before she kills him, just how much she _hates_ him.

‘I found your _surrogate_ , Mason.’

Mason smirks at her, impatient with her Omegan theatrics.

Papa should have drowned her at birth. Waste of space, all Omegas were.

‘ _Your_ surrogate, Margot,’ he hisses. ‘I promised you I’d give you a Verger baby.’

Margot shakes her head, another tear splashing free.

‘I’m _taking_ what you _promised_ me,’ she says, and then, glancing towards the portrait of their father, hanging over the fireplace, she sighs. ‘And I’ve got everything I need from you, now.’

‘You can’t kill me, Margot,’ Mason sneers, eyes glittering with hate. ‘You’ll lose _everything_.’

_Your money. Your freedom. Your home._

‘“In the absence of a legitimate male or Alphan heir, the sole beneficiary will be The Southern Baptist Church”.’

‘But there _is_ going to be an heir, Mason.’ Margot’s hurt is fading, sliding into fury after so many years of resentment. ‘A Verger baby. Yours… Mine…’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Mostly _yours_.’

‘Do you know what happens if we stimulate your prostate gland with a cattle prod?’ Alana asks, taking joy in the dawning horror on the crippled Beta’s face. ‘Hannibal does. He helped us milk you.’

Mason looks from Alpha to Omega, fury battling disgust at being abused by them.

‘You’re _dead_ , Dr Bloom,’ he snarls, but Alana doesn’t flinch at the threat.

‘Oh, Mason,’ she replies, thinking back to Hannibal’s dark, soulless eyes, and the swift ease with he killed over a dozen Alphas on the estate. ‘We all are. Didn’t you know that?’ She holds up a little test-tube of white semen. ‘But _these_ aren’t.’

As Mason fumbles to cock his handgun, having no real knowledge of how to use it, Margot lunges at him. She knocks him from his chair and tackles him to the ground, smacking him in the face as she does.

The gun goes off, the bullet zipping through the air to shatter the thick glass of the tank.

Mason and Margot fall into the water, their heads submerged as they press against liquid with nothing to hold onto.

Margot, having the full use of her back, rears backwards and leaves Mason to sink into the tank. Alana rushes to help her, pulling her to safety, and then they both hold Mason under with their hands.

The Moray eel, excited by the panicked thrashing in its waters, swims closer to investigate. At the scent of blood, its hunting instincts kick in and it takes an experimental bite of Mason’s chin.

Finding the gristle and bone unsatisfying, the eel regroups and forces its bolt cutter shaped head into the gaping hole of its master’s mouth. It takes hold of Mason’s tongue, back-curved teeth clicking together in a way that no fish can ever escape from, and Mason starts to drown. Blood and water fill his lungs, burning him from the inside, and then, as the eel begins to eat, his body sinks to the bottom of the tank.

Alana and Margot wait, watching to be sure he’s dead, and then they take their prize and leave.

It’s over. And they’ve won.

***

‘How did you find us?’ Hannibal asks, glancing at the stoic Japanese Omega in the passenger seat beside him before focusing again on the dark, snow-covered highway yawning out ahead of the truck headlights.

‘I questioned the Alpha you left behind,’ Chiyoh replies, leather-gloved hands still clasping her rifle, which is propped up between her legs. ‘The FBI Agent.’

‘Jack’s still alive?’ Hannibal smiles and hums thoughtfully, contemplating his emotional response to that. ‘Good for Jack.’

Chiyoh looks over her shoulder at the braced, unconscious Omega lying on the backseat.

‘I thought you were going to kill him,’ she murmurs, curious about the perverse relationship between the two men. ‘Because he went to Italy to kill you.’

‘I almost did,’ Hannibal admits, checking his former mate in the rearview mirror. ‘I cut into his head to eat his brain as a means of keeping the best part of him with me forever.’

‘I saw,’ Chiyoh says coolly, and Hannibal chuckles.

‘You disapprove.’

‘It’s not my place to judge you,’ Chiyoh sighs, returning her gaze to the windshield. ‘You changed the night Mischa died. You became opaque, as if a part of you froze inside forever to get away from the pain.’

‘And yet you stayed with me,’ Hannibal says, taking the turning towards Wolf Trap. ‘Even after the Lady Murasaki returned to Japan. Why was that?’

‘I made a promise,’ Chiyoh says, setting her jaw against any further questions.

Hannibal allows the silence to breathe between them, broken only by the whir of the truck heaters and the crunch of snow under tires.

When the farmhouse finally comes into view, shrouded in darkness and bereft of life, Hannibal feels a pang of regret for the life they’d had together, and for everything they could have had.

_A family. A surrogate daughter and a baby of our own._

‘I need to get Will inside,’ he says, cutting the engine and removing the keys from the ignition. ‘Chiyoh, would you mind checking the perimeter? I’d feel safer knowing you’re watching out for me.’

‘I’m always watching out for you,’ Chiyoh says, slipping quietly from the car. ‘It’s all I know.’

Watching her melt into the shadows of the early morning, Hannibal sighs. His time with Chiyoh may be coming to an end, and he will miss her.

He pulls Will from the backseat and carries him up the side steps of the porch, using the keys taken from Will’s rescued suit to unlock the front door.

The house is silent and cold when he steps inside. The floor squeaks, the boards pickled with tears and wet pawprints, stained and shrunken. The large windows encourage moonlight to enter the room, leeching the color from the furniture and throwing the white baby romper on the back of the couch into sharp relief.

Hannibal stares, uncomprehending, and then looks down at Will. At the Omega he’d Bonded, impregnated, and then Cut, seeking to release him from the shackles of a relationship so clearly detested.

_The light of a true mating bond won’t reach us for a million years, that’s how far away from true mates we are._

Will had spoken those words to him once before, after being imprisoned for the murders of Cassie Boyle, Marissa Schurr, Dr Sutcliffe, Georgia Madchen and Abigail Hobbs. Hannibal had thought Will’s opinion of him had changed once he understood the reasons behind the torture, but had all been a lie.

_It is only through pain that we can learn who we truly are. I had to break you, mylimasis, the way I was broken, so that you could rebuild yourself into your true image. So that you could be stronger than ever before._

Remembering the kitchen in Baltimore on that fateful night, Hannibal feels again the ripping agony of his own crest splitting and cracking, dying skin peeling away from his throat as his Bond to Will shattered. He’d been careful with the cuts; deep but not paralyzing, and he’d meant to kill the baby quickly and cleaning, to save it any unnecessary suffering. After the Nuchalectomy, Will would most likely have miscarried anyway. At least, after being gutted, he would only blame Hannibal. He wouldn’t turn any of that delicious wrath inwards and punish himself.

 _Our baby survived?_ Hannibal lowers his head and brushes his lips across Will’s stitched and bloody forehead, scenting him before placing a gentle kiss to the bruised skin. _You’re even stronger than I’d hoped._

He places Will on the double cot bed still set up in the far corner of the sitting room, wondering if Will sleeps down here as a means of guarding his child. How often does the other man lie awake at night, staring out into the darkness and waiting for monsters to appear?

 _I would stay up with you, beloved,_ he thinks, tucking the blankets around Will to keep him warm as he slept. _I would protect our child from the demons._

The house is as he remembers it, and he navigates it easily in the darkness. The space heater hums as the wires glow red, casting a soft glow on the walls of the hearth and across the threadbare rugs where Will’s dogs normally sleep. _Who has them?_ Hannibal wonders, judging their departure from the house to be less than a week by the dust sitting on top of the water in their bowls. _Is it the same person who has our baby?_

Quashing the instinct to rage and demand that his child be returned immediately, Hannibal moves again to the kitchen. He sets the kettle on the stove to boil and fires up the boiler, seeking the warm the little house before either of them bathe.

A stuffed animal sits on the rickety stairs leading up to the first floor and Hannibal’s heart skips a beat as he picks it up. Multiple scents cling to the polyester fabric, new layered on top of old. Will, faded, and another man related to him but Beta. His father, no doubt. An infant, sweet with innocence and creamy with the smell of milk. Dogs, laundry detergent and –

Hannibal frowns, rolling the toy between his hands. He can’t be certain, it doesn’t make sense, but he can smell two distinct scents. Two sets of chubby little hands, grasping fingers burrowing deep into the fur. Two curious mouths gumming at the snout, smearing the bear muzzle with spit and formula.

_He was carrying twins._

Fear chases relief, a dizzying rush that steals the strength from his legs. Hannibal catches himself on the wall, breathing hard, and then takes the stairs two at a time, hurrying from the empty master bedroom to the nursery at the far end of the hall.

‘ _O Dieve_ ,’ he whispers, glancing upwards towards Heaven as he freezes in the doorway.

Before him, bathed in the silver light of the winter moon, are two identical cribs. They each have a mobile hanging above the bars, one of fish, the other of dogs. Books are piled, haphazardly, on crooked shelves along the wall, intermingled with plush animals and brightly colored building blocks.

There is a changing table in the corner, stacked with diapers and romper suits, and Hannibal sways, his vision turning gray, at the sight of the little plastic bathtub leaning against the wall.

_Mischa’s bathtub is on the stove where the Cooker boils the little deer’s horned skull with some shriveled tubers. The roiling water bangs the horns against the metal walls of the tub as though the little deer is making a last effort to butt._

Wooden letters, painted in pastel shades of pink and blue, hang from the wall above each crib.

Grace. Daniel.

 _I have children,_ Hannibal thinks, and sinks, slowly, to the floor, hugging the toy to his chest as tears fall silently from his eyes. _I still have a family._

In that moment, surrounded by the scents of his Omega and his children, he vows to do whatever it takes to atone for his sins. This is his second chance, and he will not squander it.

***

Will wakes sometime before dawn, staring up at the ghostly shadows of the branches playing across the ceiling above his bed.

_My face…_

He remembers the sting of the scalpel slicing through his skin; remembers the whisper of the blade as it severs the delicate tissue, and he half-expects the agony of exposed nerves to hit the moment he opens his eyes. When it doesn’t come, tears well and he huffs a sobbing laugh, stroking over and over the tender but intact skin.

_What happened?_

He sits up, realizing he’s in his bed, in the farmhouse in Wolf Trap.

_Gracie. Danny._

Throwing the covers back, he staggers under the weight of his own body, his legs still weak after being clamped so viciously. He catches himself on the side dresser and hauls himself forwards, his foggy brain slowly registering the ugly pinstripe shirt still chafing at his neck.

Tugging the collar open, he snaps button threads in his haste to remove it – he doesn’t want _anything_ of his time at Mason Verger’s estate still touching his skin when he checks on the twins.

The nursery door is open, spilling gray early morning light onto the landing, and Will throws the shirt to the floor as he nears the room.

It’s not his Pops inside, but Hannibal, holding up one of the crocheted blankets and rubbing the scent across his cheek, purring softly. Will stops dead, swaying as gray spots swarm his vision, making his lips tingle.

‘Hannibal,’ he whispers, clutching the door for support before he falls. ‘I…’

He sees the Alpha’s eyes glisten with tears and loses all words, along with his breath. His lungs shrink, too small for his chest, and he stumbles forwards, part of him meaning to rip the blanket out of Hannibal’s unworthy hands, the other part of him desperate to sink into his arms and just be held.

Somehow, the two actions merge. Will tugs the blanket and yanks Hannibal towards him, using the movement to spin them both around and slam the Alpha up against the wall. There’s a moment, when his darkness swells inside him like a tidal wave, where he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into Hannibal’s throat and coat himself in arterial spray, but then the urge passes and he just stares, trembling with unspent energy.

‘“Night heron revealed, By the rising harvest moon –”’ Hannibal murmurs, gazing down into Will’s face with open adoration. ‘“Which is lovelier?”’ A pause and then, barely audible, ‘Are they healthy?’

Misery clogs Will’s throat. The nape of his neck prickles painfully, his scar aches and he’s more exhausted than he’s ever been.

‘Don’t come in here again,’ he says, tugging the blanket out of the Alpha’s grasp and ushering him out of the nursery. He closes the door firmly, putting the room, in no uncertain terms, off limits to Hannibal, and only then notices his lack of a shirt. ‘I need to get dressed.’

‘Will…’ Hannibal watches, waiting for dark fury to replace the hollow sense of loss in the pit of his stomach, confused when it never comes. ‘Will!’

Will pauses at the top of the stairs, looking back over his shoulder at the Alpha standing, desolately, outside the forbidden nursery.

‘The twins are fine,’ he says, sensing the desperation in his former mate’s expression. ‘There don’t appear to be any _adverse_ effects.’

_Even if your blade did puncture the womb._

‘Where are they?’ Hannibal croaks, his fingers twitching in and out of shaking fists at his sides. ‘Are they safe?’

Will sighs, and turns back to face the other man. He considers Hannibal, thinking of all the cruelty inflicted by him. Knowing a little of the cruelty done _to_ him, which helped to shape the monster behind the veil.

_I saw it… I suffered its wrath… And yet I loved you._

_I still love you._

‘They’re safe,’ he whispers thickly. ‘From you. From _us_.’ He shakes his head, a tear rolling down his cheek, and holds very still as Hannibal approaches. ‘They deserve better.’

‘They shall have the world,’ Hannibal vows, cupping the side of Will’s face and gazing into tortured golden eyes. ‘And the very _best_ father beside them.’

‘We’ve both tried to free ourselves from each other,’ Will says, holding Hannibal’s hand to his cheek, drowning in the Alpha’s crimson eyes, red sparks pinwheeling into darkness. ‘We tried violence.’

Hannibal’s breath catches, his pulse quickening as Will’s scent thickens. Dipping his head closer, scant inches away from Will’s lips, he holds himself steady, waiting for the Omega to make the first move.

‘What do you suggest?’ he whispers, every nerve firing in anticipation of the next move.

Their relationship has always been a dance. Beautiful and deadly; skating a razor’s edge, one wrong step away from blood.

Will swallows, wondering if he’s about to make another mistake. Wondering if he’s ever been able to make his own choices when it comes to Hannibal. He leans in, pressing his mouth against the other man’s, and pours all of his pain, his fear, his relief, into the kiss. He uses his free hand to pull Hannibal closer, needing to feel his familiar weight and strength against him, shielding him from the dangers of the world.

_We almost died today. We should celebrate being alive._

It’s a stupid thought; crude and instinctive, but Will is tired of fighting every urge. He slides his other hand through the Alpha’s blood-crusted hair, parting his lips and deepening the kiss.

Hannibal claims Will’s mouth with hungry abandon, ecstatic to touch him without hurting him, to feel the slim, powerful body press against him and beg for more.

‘When Mason had you in his grasp,’ he says, breaking the kiss only to nuzzle the Omega’s jawline, scenting and marking him in turn, ‘I knew the past was not the past at all. I felt again the beast that panted its hot stench on my skin.’ He presses a reverent kiss to the freshly sewn cut on his cheek, where Cordell’s scalpel cut deep. ‘I almost lost you.’

‘You tried to _eat_ me,’ Will growls, tilting his head away and returning the affection, rasping his tongue across Hannibal’s barely-scabbed wounds.

‘I tried to _honor_ you,’ Hannibal corrects, and Will huffs, refusing to argue the semantics. Whatever the intention, the result would have been the same. Him, dead, his brain consumed by Hannibal, body left to rot.

Taking the Alpha by the hand, he leads him back downstairs. His Pops has been sleeping in the Master bedroom; he can’t have sex if he can smell his father’s scent on the sheets.

_Am I really doing this? Am I really having sex with Hannibal again?_

He expects to feel disgusted; ashamed of himself for his weakness, but this doesn’t feel like fucking. It’s something more intimate than that. Something more final.

‘This is where you cut me,’ he says, coming to a stop before his unmade bed and turning to face the Alpha. He guides Hannibal’s hand to his abdomen and shivers as Hannibal’s hot palm covers the scar, caressing the puckered skin with love bordering veneration.

‘This scar is longer than the wound, Will,’ Hannibal says, lowering himself to his knees before the Omega and pressing the first of many kisses to the silvering line. ‘Did they cut the twins out of you, when the time came?’

‘They had to,’ Will replies, holding Hannibal’s head between his hands, watching him admire and commit every detail of the mark to memory. ‘They had to keep me sedated after you sliced off my crest.’

‘A lesser man would have died,’ Hannibal says, gazing up in awe. ‘Most would have lost their minds. You defied all expectations.’

Will thinks again of the teacup, falling from numb hands to shatter on an onyx surface. Splinters of the finest china, too many to count, causing irreparable damage.

‘Not so sure I didn’t,’ he mutters, but Hannibal just shakes his head and pushes him to sit back on the bed.

‘You’re so much stronger than you know, Will,’ the Alpha purrs, crawling on top on him when Will whimpers and beckons him closer. ‘I never thought I’d get to hold you again.’

‘Touch me,’ Will breathes, pulling him in for another kiss. ‘I want to feel you inside me.’

Hannibal trembles, moving them on the mattress so they can both lie flat, their legs entwined and arms chests pressed flush. Will’s fingers are swift to unbutton the shirt Hannibal took from one of the guards, palms spreading flat across the bruised, scraped skin of his chest.

‘I hate what they did to you,’ the Omega growls, tears of frustration pricking his golden eyes. He shakes his head, neck still throbbing from the old-fashioned brace clamp used by Cordell, and distracts himself by unbuckling his trousers. They’re the same suit trousers as he wore to the dinner table, and panic burrows beneath his skin before he can stop. ‘Get these _off_ me!’

‘Ssh, sssh,’ Hannibal soothes, making quick work of the zipper and button, tugging the ruined material from Will’s legs. ‘There, you’re alright.’

‘Take it all off,’ Will insists, shoving at the boxers and socks still touching him. ‘I want to burn it.’

‘A wise decision,’ Hannibal replies, shimmying out of his stolen jeans. He hadn’t taken the guard’s underwear, and the too-big boots slip easily from his feet as the rest of the material falls in an unwanted heap on the floor. ‘Leave no trace of DNA.’

‘I don’t care about getting caught,’ Will says, stroking and squeezing Hannibal’s biceps and shoulders again. ‘I just want it _gone_.’

‘Nothing will remain but dust in the wind,’ Hannibal promises, covering Will’s body with his own. He rocks his hips down against a welcoming hardness and, for a while, there’s nothing but the rasp of skin on skin and the sounds of kissing, broken only by the low rumbles of Alphan and Omegan purring.

Will throws himself into the sensations quickly overwhelming his body. Pain flashes through him as he knocks cuts and bruises, but the ache of desire quickly fans into sharp lust and flames lick through his veins, tightening his muscles and heating his skin until his cheeks flush pink.

Hannibal touches him _everywhere_ , gathering up slippery wetness and using it to ease him open. Their rhythm is practiced and quickly has him panting, barely able to concentrate on stroking Hannibal’s erection as clever fingers find the perfect spot inside, sending white sparks cascading across his eyelids.

‘Fuck me!’ he gasps, clutching to the Alpha’s broad shoulders as he rocks down onto the touch, chasing the pleasure with wanton abandon. ‘Hannibal… _please…!’_

‘I’ve got you,’ Hannibal murmurs. He gets to his knees between Will’s thighs and steadies himself, taking a deep breath as he begins to push, sliding inside the Omega, inch by torturous inch.

‘ _Fuck!’_ Will grits his teeth, groaning at the ache, and then rolls his hips, pulling Hannibal all the way inside. He reaches up as the Alpha bows over him, wrapping his legs tight around Hannibal’s waist and encouraging him in, deeper, always deeper. He wants to keep Hannibal with him, forever, and he understands, even more than before, why the Alpha wanted to eat him.

_I don’t ever want to be without you._

‘You’re incredible, Will,’ Hannibal pants, gazing down at Will’s fierce golden eyes and flushed, sweaty face, worshipping every part of him. ‘Incredible.’

‘I don’t know _what_ I am,’ Will replies, arching his back and shuddering as waves of pleasure chase each other up and down his spine. ‘God, Hannibal, you feel so _good_.’

They kiss again, abandoning the effort to talk in favor of licking and suckling each other’s necks, scenting and marking in turn. Their hands never stop moving; fingers gripping tight, stroking and smoothing hair, squeezing muscles and lightly scratching with nails. Their lovemaking is slow, the physical sensations wrung from their battered, exhausted bodies made all the sweeter by the shimmering thread of emotion stretched between their minds.

 _I love you_ , the kisses say, even as hands worship soft skin and scabbed cuts.

 _I forgive you,_ the touches say, fingers tracing and covering every scar left in the wake of their dysfunctional relationship.

 _I’m leaving you,_ Will thinks, clinging to Hannibal as they both tumble over the edge and into blissful orgasm, bodies shuddering with release, knot sealing them together. He lets himself cry, silent tears streaming down his face even as he rides the high, and Hannibal kisses the dampness away, his own cheeks equally wet.

Later that morning, hours after their bodies have separated again, Will lies silently in Hannibal’s arms, content to just listen to the sleeping Alpha’s heartbeat. He knows he has to tell him. He has to make him leave, but not just yet. They still have time. A window of freedom where the world outside has fallen away, and all that matters is right now.

Soon enough, the window will close. But, until then, they’re together again.

***

After showering, Hannibal dresses in dark slacks and a navy shirt, courtesy of the small selection of his clothes still hanging in Will’s closet. Then, wrapping himself in a thick black coat, another remnant of their life together, he leaves the other man to sleep and goes outside to find Chiyoh.

His decision has been made. His children are alive, and he will do whatever it takes to be in their lives.

The young Omega stands at the edge of the front yard, staring out at a flock of ravens leaving inky smudges against the white sky. She’s still carrying the rifle, and turns when she hears the porch door open and shut.

Watching her approach, her dark eyes wary, like a zookeeper monitoring the movements of a lion, Hannibal wonders how he ever thought she could be his companion.

There’s nobody but Will.

‘Will you go home?’ he asks, looking out over the wilderness where his children will grow up without him. A glance at her, eyes narrowing in suspicion. _‘Can_ you go home?’

‘No more than you can,’ Chiyoh replies, grimacing at the reality of her situation. She is still betrothed, after all, to a high-ranking Alpha. She would be one of many in his harem, dressed in finery like a living doll before being bred like a broodmare. A fate she could not stand, and something she will forever be running from.

Even if she had wanted to return, she’d made a commitment to remain with Hannibal, for Mischa’s sake. She’d been so close to the younger girl, both in age and caste, and she had vowed to always protect the Lecter heir, no matter what.

When Hannibal and Mischa had been taken, the boy she knew had died out in the snow, with a chain frozen to the skin of his neck. Only a demon remained.

‘Would you watch over me?’ Hannibal asks, perhaps sensing her thoughts. Perhaps smelling the distress and devotion in her scent, and interpreting its meaning.

‘I will,’ Chiyoh promises, but her eyes flare gold as she adds, sadly, ‘Not in a cage. Some beasts shouldn’t _be_ caged.’

_It only makes them more dangerous._

‘Your obsessive and successful hunt,’ Hannibal says, approaching slowly with hands deep in his pockets. ‘Whose plight was it driven by? Mine? Yours?’

‘Mischa’s,’ Chiyoh whispers, a tear freezing in place on her cheek. She sees Hannibal control a flinch, fighting his instincts, and she knows she has to ask. Now, before it’s too late.

She may never have this chance again.

‘Did you eat her?’

Hannibal considers her for a moment; considers the gun in her hands and the adoration in her eyes.

‘Yes,’ he replies, seeing no reason to lie. ‘But I did not kill her.’

_She was already dead when they gave me her arm to chew on._

Chiyoh nods, grateful for the truth, and Hannibal continues, deliberately and purposefully,

‘The most stable elements, Chiyoh, appear in the middle of the periodic table, roughly between iron and silver.’ He steps closer, lips curving and eyes burning red, dipping his head to murmur again, ‘Between iron and silver. I think that’s appropriate for you.’

***

‘Fate and circumstance have returned us to this moment. When the teacup shatters.’

It’s dark in his mind, and madness waits.

White china, edged with gold, whisper-thin and delicate. A fragile thing. Reserved for special occasions.

The cup falls, slowly, as if from a great height. Will watches, feeling a part of his mind fall with it, and he wakes as it breaks, the back of his neck throbbing.

_Hannibal._

It’s afternoon; he can tell by the quality of the light. He’d drifted off again after lunch, warm and safe under the covers, a soft fleece shirt against his skin, wrapped in the mingled scents of him and Hannibal.

As if summoned by the thought, the Alpha enters the house through the front door, stamping fresh snow from his boots. He keeps his coat on, perhaps fighting off the chill of the old house, and pauses when he sees that Will is awake.

Will sighs, hating the pleased smile lingering on Hannibal’s lips. He can still taste the other man in his mouth, still smell him on his fingers, but their time together has come to an end and the world is waiting.

His children are waiting.

Easing himself into a seated position, muscles aching from the beating he’d suffered at Muskrat Farm, he watches Hannibal approach the bed, the silence growing ever more brittle between them.

Hannibal looks down at the notebook he’d left behind; pages filled with the symbols of both astrophysics and particle physics. They are repeated efforts with the symbols of string theory, beginning brilliantly and then declining, doomed to fevered, wishful thinking, and he regards them with regret before closing the book and sitting in the mustard-yellow armchair he’s dragged across from the sitting area.

‘Do we talk about teacups and time,’ he murmurs, crossing one leg over the other and closing the notebook on his lap, hands clasped loosely over it. ‘And the rules of disorder?’

‘The teacup’s broken,’ Will replies, shaking his head. ‘It’s never going to gather itself back together again.’

_I’ll never be whole again, and we’ll never be a family._

‘Not even in your mind?’ Hannibal asks, unable to keep the desperate plea from his voice. If Will can recover, if he can accept and forgive him, just enough, then there’s still a chance.

He can still undo what he’s done. He can still make it right.

Will sighs, his eyes swirling with gold, and Hannibal knows, if he pushes too far, the Omega will bolt.

‘Your Memory Palace is building,’ he continues. ‘It’s… full of new things.’ He thinks of the Norman Chapel in Palermo, and the additional doors now leading from the intricate foyer. Of the old cuckoo clock in his Hall of Clocks, constructed of salvaged parts and always striking two minutes after the hour. ‘It shares some rooms with my own.’

Will nods; he’s sensed Hannibal in his own mind. Their connection, after all, is how he found him. Their Bond may have collapsed but they still think in the same way.

He’s not sure he’ll ever be truly free of the other man.

‘I’ve discovered you there,’ Hannibal adds, his voice rich and deep with a purr, eyes warm with pride. ‘Victorious.’

_Mouth slick with blood where you bit into Cordell’s plump cheek. Knuckles red and eyes golden when you presented me with Randall Tier’s corpse and told me to get on my knees._

Will thinks of the endless fights, the constant parry and thrust of trickery and betrayal; the quid pro quo of love and abuse, and he smiles sadly.

‘When it comes to you and me,’ he says, unable to take comfort in Hannibal’s joy, ‘there can be no decisive victory.’

Hannibal tilts his head, considering the statement.

‘We are a zero-sum game,’ he suggests, not altogether unhappy with the idea of it.

Nobody else has ever been worthy of such respect.

 _I can’t win with you,_ Will thinks, sighing again. _And you can’t win me back. Not after what you did._

He looks around the room, at the empty dog beds and baby toys scattered on the floor.

‘I miss my kids,’ he murmurs, hoping the pack and the twins are happy on the houseboat with their grandpa Bill. He swallows, a sharp lump in his throat, and turns wet eyes to Hannibal. ‘But I’m not going to miss _you_.’

He sees the barb stick; sees the wound he inflicted back in Baltimore reopen. Hannibal’s fear of being unworthy, his deep-rooted belief that he’s undeserving of love come back to life. He wants to stop, to change his mind, but he can’t.

It has to be this way.

‘I’m not going to find you,’ he says, widening the chasm between them, shutting down any hope of a reconciliation. ‘I’m not going to look for you. I don’t want to know where you are, or what you do.’

_Will… Please…_

Hannibal holds himself very still, listening through the roaring in his ears as the Omega rejects him. He watches as Will sighs again, smelling salt in the air between them, and he hears the wobble as Will uses every ounce of remaining strength to hold back tears.

‘I don’t want to think about you, anymore,’ Will whispers, needing Hannibal to understand. To accept his decision.

_I can’t do this anymore._

He can’t be a good father to their son and their daughter if he’s obsessing about Hannibal. He can’t raise their children to have happy, healthy lives if he knows where their fugitive parent is.

He can’t be complicit in anymore killing.

Hannibal looks to the side, composing himself before tears can fall. His chest aches, his heart is breaking in two and the front of his throat stings as if the Alphan crest is once more peeling off.

‘You delight in wickedness,’ he manages, ‘and then berate yourself for the delight.’

‘ _You_ delight,’ Will replies, his voice wobbling. ‘I _tolerate_.’ He swallows, the lump thickening. ‘I don’t have your _appetite_.’

He doesn’t. He has darkness inside him, a darkness that he fights with every fiber of his being, but he also has kindness and empathy. A goodness that Hannibal’s shadow instinctively seeks to destroy. 

If he stays with him, he’ll lose the best parts of himself to that darkness, and his family will suffer for it.

They’re no good together.

‘Goodbye…’ _Alpha. Lover. Father of my children._ ‘Hannibal.’

He watches as Hannibal turns the conversation over in his mind, inspecting it from every angle. He sees the fury, the ugly rage, and then he sees Hannibal squash it, choosing not to use violence to force the issue.

He sees defeat dull the fire in Hannibal’s eyes, leeching them of color, and he knows he has truly changed the Alpha.

_You feel again. And this hurts._

Hannibal opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, and nods. He gets up, adjusting his coat, and moves to the front door. Pausing to tighten the elastic strap on the notebook, he glances back one last time at Will, just in case the Omega has changed his mind, and, when he sees that Will is resolute, walks out of the house.

In the deafening silence that follows, Will allows a single tear to fall and then he leaves, retreating inwards where there is only empty black peace. The python tightens its coils around him once again and he surrenders himself to the madness of grief.

***

It’s late by the time the FBI arrive.

Jack steps out of the front SUV, still leaning heavily on a cane, his stitched tendon agony with every limping step on the snow of Will’s driveway.

The Omega, having seen the flashing blue and red lights from the house, steps out onto the porch, wearing a thick jacket to protect against the bitter cold. He’s wearing his glasses again, the gold of his eyes dulled with drops and his delicate Omegan scent crushed beneath layers of Beta scent and cologne.

Protection and deterrent to ward everyone away.

Two SWAT members enter the house, rifles at the ready, and Will sighs at the invasion.

‘He’s gone, Jack.’

Jack grits his teeth and turns his face away as he growls under his breath and his eyes pulse red. He doesn’t entirely blame Will for allowing the Alpha to escape; Hannibal was his mate and it’s doubtful he had much choice in the matter.

But it still narks him to know that the most dangerous serial killer is –

‘Jack.’

Hannibal’s voice comes from the direction of the barn and Jack swings around, staring as the Alpha in question appears out of the darkness, arms raised.

‘I’m here,’ Hannibal says, careful of the SWAT officers that rush to surround him, guns at the ready.

Chiyoh watches from her perch in a nearby tree, her own crosshairs aimed at Hannibal’s face but scope ready to swing to the side to take out the FBI agents at a moment’s notice.

_The most stable elements, Chiyoh, appear in the middle of the periodic table, roughly between iron and silver._

Hannibal had spoken those words to her earlier. A keen student of Chemistry, she had immediately known that it was a clue; the most stable elements, of course, being the noble gases. But the elements between iron and silver included palladium and rhodium. Palladium; another word meaning to safeguard or protect. And rhodium; a most precious metal.

_Safeguard my most precious._

As Hannibal sinks to his knees in front of Jack Crawford, Chiyoh lowers her gun. She will protect his children. She will watch them, as she watched Hannibal’s prisoner, and she will keep them safe in a way that Mischa was not.

‘You _finally_ caught the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack,’ Hannibal says, smiling up at him as an officer moves his arms to the sides of his head, checking his coat pockets for hidden weapons.

‘I didn’t catch you,’ Jack growls, baring his teeth in an unpleasant smile. ‘You _surrendered_.’

_You denied me the satisfaction of the catch. You made it your own choice._

‘I want you to know _exactly_ where I am,’ Hannibal replies, and Will shivers as the words settle like a hot iron on the back of his neck, warming him from the inside. ‘And where you can _always_ find me.’

_I won’t abandon our children, Will. I won’t abandon you. Not again._

This is Hannibal’s apology. His atonement.

Will swallows, his belly writhing with excitement, joy and bitter fury, and he turns his back on the situation before he says something he’ll regret.

He’s not sure he’s ready to accept the gesture. Not yet. But Hannibal has just ensured that, when he’s ready, he’ll be waiting.


	8. The Great Red Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has been imprisoned for six years and Will has made a new life for himself in Maine. But, when a new killer begins murdering whole families in their homes, Jack Crawford calls on him once again, and his former Alpha may be the only person who can help Will find The Tooth Fairy before time runs out.
> 
> TW: Mentions of rape (Mrs Leeds)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps! Woohoo! We're officially into The Red Dragon arc of the story!!! 
> 
> So, author's note: you'll see that I changed the imprisonment time from 3 years to 6. I made a similar tweak earlier in the season, to account for Will's pregnancy and recovery time. I debated whether to have the twins as toddlers, but given that Francis Dolarhyde is going to attack the house in the coming chapters, I didn't want it to seem too unreasonable that Molly manages to get out with them all safely. I couldn't imagine my nephew being as quiet as they'd need to be, so have adjusted their ages accordingly.
> 
> Anywho, notes on timescales aside, everything else should be canon-compliant. I also had the pleasure of re-reading the book to get some of the wording, so it's been a thoroughly enjoyable chapter to write.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading!!!
> 
> I'm unlikely to post again for this story until the New Year, given how long it takes me to write at the moment, so I wish everyone a very happy holiday, however you're spending it, and a safe and happy new year xxx

EIGHT

_The Great Red Dragon_

He’s been changing for some time, now.

Francis Dolarhyde sits alone at the Formica table in the breakroom of the Gateway Corporation, St. Louis, Mississippi. He keeps his back to the rest of the room, where several Beta and Alpha coworkers chat amongst themselves. Their laughter rises above the tinned Muzak version of "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" playing over the speakers.

Francis is apart from them.

Different.

Alone.

The hand before him is strong and well-formed, but not a young one. It bears the scars of manual labor. The marks of a life half-lived.

A life wasted.

The landscape is vast. Desolate. An arid desert of deep troughs and patterned ridges. Empty as the surface of the moon.

There is nothing there. No life. No hope. No joy. Just the creased skin of a knuckle. The wrinkled, scarred flesh of a palm used to hard labor.

_Scales, overlapping like the shining coils of a snake. Pale skin darkening into vibrant red and inky black._

Most Omegas are mated by their mid-twenties. Thirty, at the latest.

Today is Francis’s forty-second birthday, and he is still alone. More so, than before, because last summer Grandmother finally succumbed to her dementia and passed away in her sleep. 

As he stares, mesmerized by the undulating figures, Francis feels a rush as he truly _sees_ it for the first time. Sees the imperfections.

The potential.

A Time magazine sits beside him. It features a retrospective of William Blake’s work and, on the inner cover, a magnificent Red Dragon stretches for the sky. Its back ripples with muscles, tail wrapped possessively around the frightened Omega female beneath him and horns raised to the heavens as it challenges the very Creator for dominance. The Dragon is the epitome of a primal Alpha; raw power, dark, sensual desire, and a capacity for terrible violence to protect the one he has Claimed.

_Alpha._

Francis lowers the other hand from before his mouth, his pulse beating a rapid staccato in his ears. He’s normally ashamed of the ugly scar on his lip – testament to his cleft palate and lip surgery – but now he is too entranced by the power radiating from the Dragon. Too distracted by the strength pulsing from the grainy image.

_Alpha._

He knows what he must do.

***

His training is brutal. His Omegan body rebels against the weights and presses, against the protein-heavy diet and supplements, but Francis has the Dragon to guide him and, soon enough, it relents, surrendering to the greater will.

In ancient times, Omegas would fight for the attention of an Alpha. They would chase and be chased, and were just as dangerous as their Alphan counterparts.

_Two sides of the same coin. A little push, a subtle difference here and there, and gold eyes give way to red._

By the time his Heat hits, he can clean and press 300 pounds, and he doesn’t allow the cramps or fever to stop his daily routine. Boxers soak up the slick, the fabric straining across an unforgiving erection, and he removes the rubber mat from the floor so as not to slip when he maintains each and every excruciating yoga pose. 

_One final Heat to burn away the last of the Omegan hormones._

His dedication is rewarded by a rush of pleasure crackling down his spine. Strength floods his muscles, making them bunch and shake, and Francis rolls his shoulders, baring his teeth at the drip-marks before his face.

_Here it comes._

He can feel his body changing. He can feel the power growing inside. Making him so much more than a sniveling, pathetic Omega.

Making him more than a man.

After yoga, he lifts weights and then, as a means of stretching out his aching back and shoulders, pulls himself up using the gym hooks bolted to the support beam of the old Victorian roof. Wood and leather creak but the steel holds and Francis rises, ankles crossed behind him, suspended by his own brute strength as his eyes blaze fiery amber.

 _I’m ready_.

***

The tattoo takes three sittings to complete. Francis travels to Hong Kong for the work, and buys Iris Inhibitor drops from a herbalist shop whilst he’s there. He adds an infusion of bamboo extract and hibiscus powder to the solution, which stings like a bitch but creates a dull crimson gleam to his pupils and, by the time Grandmother’s dentures have been replicated, his vision is no longer blurry.

The Alphan fangs are distinctive. They are powerful teeth. Vicious teeth.

 _His_ teeth.

Francis can feel the strength inside him all the time now. He sits alone at the table in the break room at work, marvelling at his own hands and seeing the changes so clearly now. Knowing the Betas and Alphas around him step aside when he walks down a corridor, and avert their eyes when he passes by.

Nobody will ever love a hare-lipped freak of an Omega, but he is becoming an Alpha.

He is becoming a Dragon.

***

The scents of The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane are unpleasant. The lights are bright and unforgiving. The sounds that echo along tiled corridors and bounce off the high ceilings are sharp and filled with pain.

Hannibal Lecter, the most prestigious inmate in the history of the asylum, dips his head to taste the delicate aroma of expensive white wine and truffle mushroom. He imagines himself in his office; the sound of a fire crackling in the hearth behind him and bespoke furniture all around him.

He allows the aroma of the truffle to linger, then takes a sip of the wine. Appreciates its excellence. He is clad in a dapper plaid suit, polished brogues on his feet and hair neatly combed to the side.

Placing the wine glass back onto the desk before him, he looks across at Alana Bloom, sat in one of the patient armchairs opposite him.

‘Bâtard-Montrachet and _tartuffi bianchi_ ,’ he says, smiling in both jest and challenge. Alana, her lips painted the same jarring crimson as her nails, does not return it.

‘How I found you in Florence,’ she says coolly, arching one perfectly groomed eyebrow. Her blue eyes are thickly ringed with red, just as they always are whenever she comes here to visit him, and Hannibal can taste the salt of her nerves despite the restricted airflow of the conditioned room beyond the walls of his Mind Palace.

‘Betrayed by good taste,’ he murmurs, picking up the glass by its stem again and swirling the wine to release more of the flavor. ‘Is good taste itching away at you in your daily rounds of institutional life?’

The dig is more than a mere jab and they both know it. Alana has always despised clinical duty; to be the captor for so many mentally unwell patients. Even as a Beta it was repugnant to her, and yet, here she is, holding the keys to the cage in which he is trapped.

‘An itch easy enough to scratch when there’s cause to celebrate,’ Alana replies, adjusting her weight and re-crossing her legs. The red of her Chanel suit perfectly matches the shade of her makeup and the black striped shirt beneath is a dark backdrop for the bold color. She is making a statement; it is a dominant outfit, demanding attention and respect.

A true Alpha’s suit.

‘Congratulations, Hannibal,’ she adds, raising her own wine glass in toast. ‘You're officially insane.’

Hannibal is slow to sip; relishing each and every flavor balancing perfectly on his tongue. The wine slides down his throat, crisp and refreshing, and it is only after the memory of it fades that he replies, dismissively,

‘There’s no consensus in the psychiatric community _what_ I should be termed.’

Alana narrows her eyes at him.

‘You’ve long been regarded by your peers in psychiatry as something entirely _Other_. For convenience, they term you a monster.’

‘What do _you_ term me?’ Hannibal asks, regarding her with detached interest, a wall of professional courtesy between them, thicker than the toughened glass of his cell.

‘I don’t,’ Alana sighs, adding, before drinking more wine, ‘You _defy_ categorization.’

‘Do you still prefer beer to wine?’ Hannibal asks, watching her sip more of the Bâtard-Montrachet. As expected, Alana tenses and her eyes flicker pure red.

‘I stopped drinking beer when I found out what you were _putting_ in mine,’ she says, her insides clenching with disgust to know that her “special reserve” was a combination of blood, occasionally bile and, more often than not, Hannibal’s own semen.

‘“Who”,’ Hannibal corrects, pleased when Alana’s jaw tightens around a low snarl.

‘“Who”’,’ the other Alpha admits. She purses her lips, displeased with the direction of the conversation, and turns her face to the side.

The office scene fades; Hannibal allows it to dissipate, leaving him at the bolted steel table of his cell, sketching on paper magnanimously given as a reward for his good behavior.

‘This means you’ll be spared the federal death sentence,’ Alana continues, and then looks back at the captive Alpha, who somehow seems to make the white overall and rubber-soled shoes of the institution overalls work to his advantage.

Hannibal always has the ability to look as if he is here entirely of his own choosing.

As if he could leave at any moment.

‘They had enough to convict you a dozen times over,’ she adds, as if reminding herself of the charges heaped on the man’s blond head.

‘A baker’s dozen,’ Hannibal agrees, adding a flourish of graphite to the rendering of Alana as Botticelli’s _Fortitude._ ‘Lest we forget Mason Verger. You’re welcome.’

The reminder of his favor to her – to Margot – irritates Alana more than she’d like, and she grits her teeth again, forcing a snarl to come out as a breathless, incredulous laugh.

‘ _You’re_ welcome, Hannibal. The needle was _guaranteed_ but you beat it all on an insanity plea!’

‘I’m not insane,’ Hannibal replies, as calmly and demurely as he did in Court the day that he was sentenced to be reprimanded for nine consecutive life terms at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Alana rises from the wooden chair she had dragged into the center of the room, approaching the smooth wall of clear, thick glass.

‘You know that, and I know that,’ she says quietly, eyes shadowed as she watches Hannibal draw a chillingly accurate version of her in religious garb. ‘A dozen or a baker’s dozen... Enough people have died.’

It’s a plea. Small, unspoken, but it’s there. And Hannibal doesn’t miss it. He abandons the sketch and twiddles the pencil between his fingers, finally raising his dark, dead eyes to Alana’s pale face.

‘ _You_ haven’t,’ he says, with such cold assurance that all the fine hairs across the back of Alana’s neck stand on end.

‘A promise in waiting, isn’t it?’ Alana growls, her voice dropping to an icy hiss between tightly gritted teeth. ‘A promise you intend to keep.’

Hannibal smiles; the barest quirk of his lips, burgundy eyes flaring like the embers of distant fire, just stoked.

‘I _always_ keep my promises.’

_To you… And to Will._

***

Francis completes his speech therapy exercises every day at 6am. He plugs his ears with cotton wool and stands before the smashed full-length mirror that used to stand in Grandmother’s bedroom.

The vowels are easy enough. Ah, ah, ah. Oh, oh, oh.

The sibilant consonants are the real challenge to his mutilated mouth. He hates this part. Hates the lisp. The rasp. The slurring of his speech into something twisted and broken.

‘S… s…. ssss….’

He falters. Fails.

_Useless!_

Francis smacks himself upside the head. An Alpha would never fail as he has done. An Alpha would never give up.

Squaring his shoulders, he sets his jaw and tries again, glaring bitter hatred at the amber eyes of the stupid, ugly Omega in the mirror.

‘S… six… six, six, six…’

Pride swells. Francis purrs but the sound feels too high. He cracks his jaw, opens his mouth wide and screams.

It is a primal sound. An Omega’s keening plea for help.

For an Alpha.

In response, a rich, deep snarl reverberates up through his chest. Francis growls at the Omega cowering in the mirror, hating him. Hating every _inch_ of him.

_I am an Alpha. I am. I am._

An even deeper growl makes him start. He whips around with a sharp intake of breath, searching for the source of the sound. It reverberates through the house, coming from many places at once, filling his head and the old mansion at the same time.

Francis waits, his heart thumping against his sternum, eyes wide with fear and anticipation.

Slowly, as if drawn by a magnet, his gaze settles on the old glass in the corner of his desk.

Grandmother’s dentures. Snaggle toothed and yellowed, the water long since evaporated.

They stare at him. Judge him. Remind him of how much of a failure he is. An ugly Omega. A broken Omega. Too damaged for anyone to want to mate with.

 _I am an Alpha_ , Francis thinks, the sound solidifying into a terrifying, primordial snarl. _And I am The Dragon._

That weekend, the Leeds family dies.

***

Cooking is a feast for both the body and the mind and, as a celebrity inmate, Hannibal is afforded the privilege of preparing the occasional dessert for his most esteemed benefactor.

Nothing requiring knives, of course, or anything else that could, with little effort, be used as a weapon. The little heater used to bring the milk to a simmer is barely more than a tealight and he is heavily supervised as he prepares the dish.

Four guards stand watch, with tranquilizer guns at the ready.

Once the dessert has been poured into hollowed-out oranges, Hannibal arranges the biscuits alongside the cup, dusted them with icing sugar and then adds a sprig of persimmon fruit as a finishing touch.

The guards escort him to his end of the metal table in his cell and shackle his left hand to the table, leaving only his right free with which to eat.

Dr Frederick Chilton sits across from him, raising his dark eyebrows at the plate set before him.

‘ _Sanguinaccio dolce_ ,’ Hannibal explains, waiting for the guards to leave them alone before he lifts his plastic spoon. ‘A classic Neapolitan dessert, with almond milk.’ A smile, his eyes twinkling. ‘Easy on the stomach.’

_What’s left of it, anyway._

‘ _Sanguinaccio dolce_ ,’ Frederick replies, musing over the name of it as he picks up his own spoon. ‘You’ve served me this before.’

‘One of my favorite desserts,’ Hannibal says, regarding Frederick the same way he did when hosting the other Alpha at his townhouse. ‘Traditionally made with pigs’ blood, but, in this case, a local cow.’

Frederick pauses, right before dipping the spoon into the pudding.

‘And when you _last_ served it to me?’ he drawls, glancing up at the cannibalistic Alpha preening across the table from him.

Hannibal delights in the rush of salty fear he can so easily induce in Frederick, and tips his head as if sharing a great secret as he replies,

‘The blood was from a cow… only in the derogatory sense.’

Frederick sits for a moment, stunned that Hannibal has just so easily admitted to using someone’s blood in part of a meal, and then, feeling faintly queasy, gathers up a helping of the rich ganache. Warily, he lifts the spoon to his mouth and places it between his lips. He expects to hate it, expects to cringe and for the nausea to swell into hot sickness, but it’s _delicious_. Dark, rich and not too sweet. There’s a hint of salt blended with the cocoa. Smooth, thick and dangerous moreish, the flavors explode across his tongue and make his whole mouth water.

‘Mmm,’ he says, glancing up in surprise.

Hannibal grins, all but purring at the unspoken compliment.

‘Blood and chocolate…?’ Frederick swallows again, licking his lips. ‘That should’ve been the subtitle of my book.’ Hannibal lifts his own spoonful to his mouth, relishing the taste as his would-be biographer continues, ‘But, I promised myself I would never use colons in my titles.’ A self-deprecating smile. ‘Colons lose their novelty when overused.’

 _No,_ Hannibal smugly thinks, _they don’t._

‘You will have to write another book,’ he says, smiling across at the damaged Alpha clinging to the pretense of importance.

‘Hm, I am,’ Frederick says, eating more pudding. ‘But not about _you_.’

The ploy is clumsy and vulgar, made all the more obvious for the way in which Frederick sneers at him. Hannibal glances up, indulging his curiosity for just a moment, and then turns his attention back to the beauty of the _sanguinaccio dolce_ before him. Frederick, never one to know when to stop, continues to needle him. ‘Like overused punctuation, the novelty of Hannibal Lecter has waned.’ He feigns a sad, sorrowful tone.’

‘What is the subject of your new book, Frederick?’ Hannibal asks, coolly displeased with the other man, and Frederick licks the spoon, red-ringed eyes trained on him as he purrs, smugly,

‘The Tooth Fairy.’

Hannibal spares him a quick glance, barely quirking his eyebrow at the reference to the appalling tabloid name for the killer of two unrelated American families.

‘I find folks are a bit more interested in him,’ Frederick continues, unable to resist poking him, trying to get a reaction. ‘He _is_ the debutante. Although,’ he smiles, gesturing to the artful plate, ‘he lacks your love of presentation.’

‘More of a shy boy, this one,’ Hannibal says, unfazed by the goading.

‘I’d love to hear your thoughts,’ Frederick says, greedy eyes locked on the captive Alpha before him. Anything Hannibal Lecter says, of course, will be taken as his own. Who listens to the word of a convicted serial killer? At Hannibal’s continued silence, he sets the spoon down, foregoing the pretense. ‘What do _you_ think about the Tooth Fairy?’

Hannibal, lithe and poised, creates the unnerving impression of a great cat lounging before an antelope. He could pounce at any moment and, chained though he may be, he is still dangerous.

‘I think he doesn’t like being called the Tooth Fairy,’ he says, and Frederick frowns, irritated by the lack of insight offered from the, annoyingly brilliant, psychiatrist.

‘It isn’t as snappy as “Hannibal the Cannibal”,’ he agrees, ‘but he _does_ have a much _wider_ demographic than you do.’ Another sneer. Another needle. ‘ _You…_ with your fancy allusions and your fussy aesthetics…’

Hannibal pauses, just for a moment, and then returns to another mouthful of dessert.

Frederick is, what some would call, _roasting_ him.

One day, he will be sure to return the favor.

‘You will always have _niche_ appeal,’ Frederick continues, picking up his spoon again. It really is a most _wonderful_ dessert. ‘But _this_ fellow? There is something so universal about what he does. Kills whole families… and in their _homes?’_ He raises his eyebrows, the picture of contrived distress. ‘Strikes at the very _core_ of the American Dream.’ Unable to get a response to that, he tries one last time. ‘You might say he’s a four-quadrant killer.’

‘Yes,’ Hannibal replies, and watches, amused, as Frederick’s hopes visibly rise, only to be dashed with his non-committal, ‘you might.’

Entertainment is so hard to come by, now that Alana has moved him out of the cell block following the unfortunate incident with Multiple Miggs, and Hannibal does so enjoy his petty torments.

It’s the only reason he still permits Frederick to visit him.

That, and he wishes to borrow his newspaper.

***

Frederick retires to his old office after his lunch with Hannibal. He sits back in the expensive leather chair, his feet up on the desk and ankles crossed, chewing the end of his Mount Blanc fountain pen as he thumbs through the sparse pages of Hannibal’s patient file.

 _Dr Lecter continues to resist talking therapies with members of clinical staff at the Hospital,_ Dr Bloom writes, her words written in clear black ink on the crisp white paper. _When presented with the standard tests – Rorschach, Levenson et al – he disengages from vocal conversation and, if asked to complete paper forms, folds them into origami before returning to the surveyor through the feeding tray._

He hears the door open behind him but doesn’t look up. He already knows who it is and he just smiles.

‘Get out of my chair, Frederick,’ Alana says, sighing at the other Alpha’s insufferable arrogance. She’d hoped his gutting and being shot in the face might have humbled him but he seems as intolerable as ever. More so, thanks to his fame.

‘Shall we join hands in a prayer of gratitude?’ Frederick teases, getting up and dropping the file onto the desk with a pile of others for Alana to review. ‘“Thank you, Father, for allowing us to remove this monster, monster of monsters, from your flock? Thank you, on behalf of the souls we will spare of pain.”’

Alana sits, disliking the warmth clinging to the leather, and begins to tidy up the mess created by the petty, irritating man before her.

‘Thank you,’ she says, sitting back once the documents have been organized and crossing her legs again. ‘On behalf of the monster? Was that the magisterial “we”?’

Chilton shrugs, leaning his hands on the back of one of the chairs facing the new Director of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

‘It is our cabal,’ he replies. ‘Yours and mine.’ At Alana’s silence, he adds, ‘Hannibal Lecter will spend the rest of his life in a state institution, watching the diaper cart go by.’

‘We lied,’ Alana says quietly, and Chilton looks down, shifting uncomfortably until she adds, pointedly, ‘ _You_ wrote a _book_ of lies.’

‘Not difficult to see lies flying above my head,’ Frederick says, fiddling with the stitching running through the leather. ‘ _But_ it’s almost impossible to shoot them down.’

‘Hannibal will shoot them down,’ Alana warns. ‘He’s written a brilliant piece for “The American Journal of Psychiatry”.’

Frederick scoffs and turns away, pacing to release some of the unconscious tension.

‘Everything he writes is about some problem he does not _have!’_ he scoffs, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet and pouring himself a whiskey.

‘Well, what he’s written is _going_ to be your problem,’ Alana advises him, sitting forwards and clasping her hands together on the desk. ‘It’s not so much an article as it is a rebuttal.’

Chilton blinks, then composes his self-satisfied self.

‘Hard to believe an inmate’s opinion will count for anything in the professional community,’ he says, more to reassure himself than her.

‘It’s going to _count_ , Frederick,’ Alana says, ‘and it’s going to _sting_.’

Frederick rolls his eyes, lowering himself into the chair he’d been fiddling with before his trembling knees betray him.

‘You think he would’ve taken the opportunity to gloat,’ he grumbles, thinking sourly of the Alpha locked away on his own top-security floor in a separate wing of the institute.

Somehow, Hannibal always seems to be doing one better than him.

‘He’ll have plenty of time to gloat,’ Alana says, seeking to soothe her flustered colleague. ‘Watching the diaper carts go by.’ Then, once Frederick seems mollified, she adds, ‘So… what did you two talk about?’

Chilton smirks.

‘I am _always_ surprised you don't listen in. When I was in your position, I recorded every word.’

‘That’s illegal,’ Alana reminds him. Then, ‘What did you talk about?’

‘The Tooth Fairy,’ Frederick says. ‘I’ve detected a trace of competitive vanity in our man.’ At Alana’s lowered gaze and the tang of worry coloring her scent, he leans closer. ‘I would be cautious,’ he advises. ‘The Young Turk may inspire the Old Lithuanian to keep himself interesting.’

_And we all know what happens when Hannibal is interesting._

***

Francis enjoys Country and Western music the most. Grandmother had preferred choir music, sung by the angelic voices of altar boys, but now that the house is his, Francis can use the turntable to play whatever he likes.

He sits in his armchair, wreathed in darkness. Only his face is lit, illuminated by the flickering glow of the film projector next to him. Light stabs through celluloid frames, clicking rapidly as the reels spin.

The movie is silent. Only the music accompanies the images that he sees.

Francis keeps very still. He is transfixed, he knows, by the power before him. By the tribute to his own Alpha sense.

And then the noise comes again. A low growl, hungry and demanding, from everywhere and nowhere.

Francis looks around, alarmed.

_I did what you wanted. I honored you. Please, don’t hurt me._

He kicks the table with the record player, knocking the needle off the vinyl. The record cuts off with a rush of static and then a high-pitched whine slices through the resulting silence.

Francis cowers, pressing his palms to his ears. The whine hurts, making his ears ring. Are they bleeding? It feels like they should be bleeding.

From the corner of his eye, he sees something slide out of sight. There, and then gone. He only glimpses it, but it looked like a reptilian tail. The noise comes again from the darkness, low and intimate, now. Francis flinches, his heart hammering.

The growl rises, louder and threatening.

_Submit._

Whining softly, his Omegan scent thickening like sweet molasses, Francis sloses his eyes tight, surrendering himself to the beast.

 _I’m yours,_ he thinks, opening himself to the power radiating behind him. _Only yours._

Deep inside his skull, a light begins to grow. It starts as just a flicker, deep beneath the surface, but it quickly swells. It’s as powerful as his Heat, blazing out of him.

The celluloid strips wrap around him. They into the skin of his face and yet somehow still move. Still play the film. The images. The tribute.

The flicker of light inside him projects through it. He _is_ the tribute. He _is_ the instrument of the Dragon.

Through the blood and the screams, red wings unfurl.

_Soon._

***

Under the glow of a full moon just waned, Hannibal Lecter stands over the steel desk bolted to the wooden floor. Articles, periodicals, newspapers and fan mail cover the surface. There are articles about Hannibal himself, letters from admirers and copies of his contributions to medical and psychiatric journals.

The article that he focuses on, however, is in _The Buffalo Citizen_ , the newspaper that Dr Chilton was so kind as to leave for him after his earlier visit.

Hannibal separates the first page from the newspaper, and, licking along the edge, forms a neat crease, which he then tears as sharply as a knife.

In Mississippi, by the light of an old oil heater, Francis uses a pair of butcher’s scissors to cut the same article from his own copy of _The Citizen_. He separates the article from the paper, repeating the process with the other reports of the murders.

This is _his_ tribute.

He leaves the clippings and moves to fetch a great ledger from a sturdy table beneath the painting of Blake’s _The Great Red Dragon_. It is more than a hundred years old, bound in black leather with brass corners, and Francis strains to carry it.

He settles back into his chair and opens the ledger. Across the first page, from words cut from newspapers and magazine, are the words from Revelation: "And There Came a Great Red Dragon."

Leaning down, he scents the pages as he opens the book. After the title, there is another rendering of the Dragon and, beneath it, a picture cut from an old anatomy book, of an Alpha fetus.

Crammed into the margins around each image are Francis’s notes; small, cramped handwriting that he pays no attention to as he sucks up the smell of sweet Omegan pheromones and musky seed.

Nestled in the pages is a faded photograph of his childhood. The only image he has of Grandmother. He sits on the Alpha woman’s knee, head bowed to bare the nape of his neck to her. Grandmother stares at the camera, a severe and uncompromising woman, and Francis feels a twist of familiar shame, guilt and self-loathing before he quickly sets the image aside, facedown so as not to distract from this moment.

Behind him, breathing hot against the shell of his ear, the Dragon purrs.

He is pleased.

Francis turns another page. Now there are pictures and news articles detailing Dr Hannibal Lecter’s arrests. The Alpha in the images is strong and refined. He is everything Francis wishes he could be.

Everything the Dragon lets him become.

Hannibal Lecter is the Alpha he wants. The Alpha he _needs_ , until he can complete the transformation himself.

Hannibal Lecter is a primal Alpha; a killer of lesser beings. He is a true predator, and he is deserving of Francis’s worship and the Dragon’s respect.

He turns to a fresh page and prepares his own clippings, spreading glue to secure the paper to the ledger. Across from the Tattle Crime tagline of “Hannibal the Cannibal” now sits his own offensive nickname: “Tooth Fairy Massacres Perfect Families.”

Grabbing a Sharpie from the pot of pens beside him, Francis scrubs out the words Tooth Fairy.

Only then does the knot of tension begin to uncoil in the pit of his stomach.

They will all understand, soon.

***

In his cell in Baltimore, Hannibal gives himself time to compose his letter before applying graphite pencil to paper. His scent, thick and heavy with affection, seeps into the thin material of the newspaper. It will linger there, he knows, for weeks if needed, to be released upon the opening of the envelope housing his letter.

For a moment, as he sits there, he imagines himself in the Norman Chapel of Palermo. The smell of incense hangs in the air. The sound of whispered prayers and offers to a nameless, uncaring God.

A skull, graven on the floor, reminding them all that Death is their Master.

Smiling, Hannibal sets the tip of the pencil to the paper and begins to write.

_Dear Will._

***

Saturdays are for fishing and odd jobs around the house. There’s always work to be done, and Will likes to keep busy, especially when the twins aren’t around.

Moosehead Lake is always achingly beautiful, but today it seems especially peaceful. Pine-forested hills lie blanketed in snow and steam rises from the river as the sun climbs to its zenith. The dogs play, running and barking, kicking up flurries of white powder in their wake as they chase squirrels and each other, frolicking in the freedom Will gives them.

He’s mending the latch on one of the outbuildings when he hears the crunch of approaching tires. Bundled against the cold, his cheeks and nose pink from the chilly wind, he turns at the sound of an unfamiliar engine, his face falling before stilling to an expressionless mask as Jack Crawford steps out of the black FBI-issue SUV.

It was only a matter of time, really, before he came calling.

Will doesn’t know how to feel. Disappointed? Nervous? Wary? The words are too weak to do his emotions justice. He drops the screwdriver back into the bag at his feet and approaches the waiting Alpha, wishing he had his glasses to hide the sheen of gold in his otherwise blue eyes.

‘Hey, Will,’ Jack says, when the Omega is close enough to hear. ‘Long time.’

‘Jack.’ Will removes his lambskin gloves and shoves them in his pocket.

‘Got lost twice on the way up here,’ Jack says; an offer of appeasement for such a stilted conversation. ‘Kept missing the turn.’

‘Yeah. It’s quiet.’ Will sighs, his breath billowing in the frigid air as he looks around. There’s no escape. There never was. ‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

Will nods.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he says, and strides into the house, leaving his former boss, former mentor, former friend, outside in the cold.

If he takes long enough, will Jack give up and leave?

No such luck. By the time he’s poured them each a drink, Jack has moved to the porch, looking out across the lake.

Will sighs, shutting both front and screen door against the chill. He offers one of the steaming cups to the Alpha, noting his thick gray beard, Fedora hat and smart coat.

Definitely not a social call, as if he’d had any doubts.

‘Thank you,’ Jack murmurs, shivering despite his layers. He sits in one of the chairs Will carved last Fall, looking up with a knowing glint to his dark eyes when Will doesn’t settle, but leans against the railing and sips his drink in silence. ‘You don’t wanna talk inside?’ the Alpha ventures, lips twisting in a grimacing smile when Will just looks at him and then sips his drink instead of replying. ‘Huh. You don’t wanna let _me_ inside.’ Taking his own sip, he warns, ‘I’ve come too far to let the cold stop me, Will.’

At that, Will snorts and rolls his eyes.

‘Why should the _cold_ stop what common sense _couldn’t?’_

Jack tries again. Alphas are nothing if not persistent.

‘So, you don’t want to talk about it here.’

‘ _I_ don’t want to talk about it _anywhere_ ,’ Will replies. ‘You’ve _got_ to talk about it, so let’s have it.’ He scowls, blue eyes flooding with gold. ‘Just er… Just _don’t_ get out any pictures,’ he adds, glancing back over his shoulder towards the little lane leading towards the lake. ‘Molly and Walter will be back with the twins, soon.’

Jack narrows his eyes. The twins. _Hannibal Lecter’s_ children.

Setting the cup down with a decisive _thunk_ , he settles in for the conversation.

‘How much do you know?’ he asks, frowning when Will just shrugs.

‘Two families,’ the Omega says, rattling off the details found in the local newspaper. ‘Killed in their homes a month apart. Similar circumstances.’

‘Not similar, the _same_ ,’ Jack snaps. He narrows his eyes at the former profiler. The man whose gift could have helped prevent a further four deaths if he hadn’t been so damn _stubborn._ ‘You ever think about giving me a call?’ he asks, a low growl rumbling in his chest when Will scoffs and shakes his head. The look the Omega gives him, though, is sharp with pain, his voice weak as he manages a faint,

‘ _No_.’

Jack nods, considering the rebuke.

‘You know what it is?’ he asks, wondering at Will’s insight into his own fear. His own desperate need to build a new life, away from Baltimore and everything that came with it.

Will frowns, bristling at the implication. He turns to face him and shrugs again, rejecting him with the set of his shoulders and the way he clenches his jaw.

‘I didn’t call you because…’ He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t _want_ to.’ He looks out towards the garden and pine-strewn hills beyond. This is his home. His sanctuary. He sighs. ‘I don’t think I can be any use to you, Jack. I… I don’t _think_ about this, anymore.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe I could _do_ it, now.’

Jack removes one of his leather gloves and uses his dexterous fingers to tug two photographs from the breast pocket of his coat. The two families; an Alpha and Omega in each, smiling happily at the camera, their arms around their kids.

_That could have been Hannibal and I with the twins… It’s not so dissimilar to the pictures of Molly with our kids._

‘All dead,’ he murmurs, pressing his advantage when he sees the pain rip through the Omega before him.

Will’s heart sinks and his lungs shrivel inside his chest. His gut twinges and he only just manages to gulp down a whine.

_Fuck you, Jack. I told you, no photographs. But you know exactly how to manipulate me._

He takes the pictures. Glances down at them and then looks up again, but he knows the faces of dead children will haunt him.

How would he feel if his own children were in danger? If his own kids had been killed?

‘I think this freak is in phase with the moon,’ Jack says, watching him closely as he provides him with details not available in the national press. ‘Killed the Jacobis almost four weeks ago in Chicago. Full moon. Killed the Leeds family in Buffalo night before last. One day short of a lunar month. With a little bit of luck, we might have a little more than three weeks before he does it again.’

The dogs bark and they both look round. A blond haired woman emerges from the trail leading down to the lake, herding three children before her. An older boy, bundled up and lugging a chain of trout. Two younger children, just shy of seven years. One boy, one girl.

_Hannibal and Will’s children._

Will nods down at the photographs, scowling pointedly. Jack whisks them away and pockets them again, standing with a small smile as the woman pauses at the sight of him. He notes the way she gathers the children tighter around her, keeping the dogs between them and the strange Alpha on her porch, and he wonders if Will is going to be the more hospitable of the two.

‘Everything alright?’ Molly Graham asks, blue eyes sliding from the broad Alpha male very obviously upsetting her husband. ‘I didn’t realize we were expecting company.’

‘Special Agent Jack Crawford, FBI,’ Jack says, extending his hand to shake. Molly hesitates for just a moment but then acquiesces, though the exchange is brief. She turns immediately to the watching kids, focusing especially on the solemn-looking boy with brown curls just like Will’s, whose maroon eyes are fixed on the stranger.

‘Wally, take the twins inside and get everyone cleaned off,’ she instructs. ‘Pop the fish in the sink and get everyone changed into dry clothes.’

‘Danny wants hot chocolate,’ the little girl said, despite her twin brother’s continued silence. She pulls her woolly hat off, revealing silky blonde hair and slanted cheekbones, eerily reminiscent of Hannibal.

‘Wally can make some for you, once you’re dry,’ Molly replies, and watches as Gracie takes her younger brother’s hand and leads him inside, followed by their step-brother and the pack of dogs. She turns to Will and he feels a rush of gratitude that she’s backing him up, waiting for him to take the lead.

She’s exactly what he needs.

‘I’m going to chop some wood,’ he says, knocking back the rest of his coffee and leaving the cup beside Jack’s on the table. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’

‘Want some help?’ Molly asks, fixing Jack with another long, hard look when Will nods. ‘We’ll be back soon.’

‘Sure.’ Jack doesn’t take offense at the less-than-warm welcome. They all know why he’s here, after all.

Molly and Will crunch through the snowdrifts near the woodshed, taking up their respective roles at the old, scarred stump. Will wields the axe with deadly accuracy, slicing through logs with enough force to make him sweat, over and over until the knot starts to loosen in his belly.

Molly picks up the pieces, just like always.

‘Jack stopped by to see me at the shop before he came out here,’ she says, when Will’s rage has subsided into troubled contemplation. ‘He asked directions to the house.’

‘He said he got lost,’ Will replies, swinging the axe again.

‘Good,’ Molly replies, grinning when he frowns at her, confused. ‘That was the idea. Y’know, I _tried_ to call you. You really ought to answer the phone once in a while.’

Will sets the axe down and wipes his brow with the back of his gloved hands. He frowns, slightly out of breath from the effort of chopping.

‘What else did he ask you?’

‘He asked how you are,’ Molly says, shrugging around her pile of wood. ‘I said you're fine. Said, if you missed your other life, you'd talk about it, but you never do.’ She smiles at him, warm and loving. ‘You're open and calm and easy now, and I love that.’

Will considers that, and her, and then he smiles.

She’s a wonderful woman.

Molly frowns, blue eyes clouding with worry.

‘Are you going to help him?’ she asks, glancing up at the house, at the golden glow of the windows in the gathering dusk. Jack has gone inside, taking shelter in their home with their children.

Will takes half the stack from Molly, sharing the load.

‘Helping Jack is bad for me,’ he says, almost too softly for her to hear as they climb the steps to the back porch, and the kitchen door waiting for them.

Molly doesn’t say anything. What can she say?

It might be bad for him, but it doesn’t mean he won’t do it.

He might not have a choice.

***

Jack takes his time inspecting Will’s new house. The lodge is cosy and cluttered, filled with signs of a life well-lived. A family home, simple and comfortable.

Walter Graham sits on the floor with the dogs, playing tug with Buster and a new dog that Jack doesn’t recognize. The twins sit opposite each other at the hand-carved dining table; Grace draws, already well-skilled for her age, whilst Daniel reads.

Jack’s gaze keeps sliding back to them, apprehension coiling like a snake whenever he notes the similarities to Hannibal. Grace’s hair is lighter, yes, but the same fine strands. Daniel’s maroon eyes hold the same strange, pinwheel red lights as his Alphan father, and both children share the Lecter brow.

‘What’re you drawing?’ he asks, when Grace looks up at him, soberly holding his gaze until he feels the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

‘It’s our new dog,’ the young girl replies, holding the paper up for him to see when he stands and comes closer. ‘His name is Rudy.’

‘That’s very good,’ Jack says, managing a smile. He nods down at Daniel’s book. ‘And what about you? What are you reading?’

The boy ignores him, turning a page and continuing to read, his lips moving as if sounding the words.

‘He’s not shy,’ Gracie says, lifting her hand and signing at her brother. ‘He just can’t hear you.’

Daniel glances up, his startled, fawnlike expression reminding Jack of Will, and then offers the Alpha the book.

Jack’s stomach lurches – the boy is deaf? He hurries to cover his surprised dismay and nods encouragingly at the title.

_‘“500 Incredible Facts About Nature.”’_

‘Danny wants to be a vet when he grows up,’ Gracie explains, meticulously adding dark brown shading to her dog image. ‘Or an astronaut.’

‘Yeah?’ Jack sits at the head of the table between them, fascinated by Will Graham’s children. ‘I wanted to be an astronaut too, when I was a kid.’

‘What do you do now?’ Gracie asks, glancing up with eyes the same blue as Will’s.

‘Well, I help catch bad people,’ Jack explains, foregoing his full title. ‘I help stop people getting hurt.’

‘Daddy used to help catch bad people,’ Gracie says, sitting back to inspect her work. ‘Until he had us. Then he moved here to live with Molly and Walter, and got a job fixing boat motors again.’

‘Your Dad is very good at helping us catch bad people,’ Jack agreed, dipping lower to encourage Grace’s confidence. ‘In fact, he’s one of the best.’

‘Come on,’ Walter says, abandoning the dogs to approach from the hearth. ‘Time to wash up before dinner.’

‘This is for Daddy,’ Gracie says, holding out the drawing for Wally to take. ‘For when he goes away again. It’ll remind him of us.’

Jack stares at the little girl, wondering how she knows he’s going to take Will with him when he leaves.

Before he can ask, however, the back door opens and Molly and Will enter, bringing a gust of cold air with them.

‘Hey, come on, you two,’ Molly scolds, shooing the kids away from the table. ‘You should already be in your pajamas!’ She fixes Jack with another sharp look, warning him away from her brood, and then soothes it by offering him a brandy.

***

One brandy turns into two, and they empty a bottle of wine with dinner. Will cooks; a salt-crusted trout with garlic-butter potatoes and fresh greens.

By the time the second bottle has started, the twins have been put to bed and Wally’s eyelids are starting to droop.

‘People dump small dogs here all the time,’ Molly says, picking up where they left their conversation before taking the twins up. ‘I can give away the cute ones… The rest stay and get to be big ones.’

Will watches her, smiling at his wonderful, sweet, kind wife.

‘Molly’s a sucker for strays,’ he teases, referring to himself and the twins, as well as their six new dogs. The Beta, predictably, laughs at him and shakes her head, blue eyes twinkling as she sips wine.

‘You’re not fooling anybody, Mr Graham,’ she flirts, and Jack can’t help but sniff a chuckle at how easy their banter is.

How sweet.

It reminds him of what he’d had with Bella.

‘You have a nice life here,’ he says, eyes flickering red as he settles again on Will. The Omega flinches, ducking his head and chewing on his lower lip.

‘Yeah,’ he mumbles, gathering his strength before looking up again, meeting Jack’s gaze with open anger and resentment. ‘Yeah, I’m lucky here. I _know_ that.’

Walter, sensing the tension between the adults, pushes up from the table.

‘I’m gonna take the dogs out for a pee before bed,’ he announces, and Molly smiles her thanks at him for being so sensitive and mature.

Collecting his coat, Walter clucks his tongue for the dogs to follow and Will’s heart skips a beat, the nape of his neck throbbing; a dull, painful ache.

‘How old is he?’ Jack asks, nodding towards him.

‘Er, eleven,’ Will replies, smiling at Molly again. She’s gone quiet; they’ve danced around the real reason for Jack’s visit since his arrival but it looms, now.

‘He’s gonna be taller than you,’ Jack warns, and Will huffs. He gets up, needing air, needing space, needing to be anywhere but here, with Jack, discussing his adopted son whilst his children – _Hannibal’s_ children – are asleep upstairs.

‘Yeah, his father was,’ he says, and grabs for his own jacket. ‘Hold on, I’ll come with you,’ he says, following Wally onto the porch.

When they’re alone again, Molly turns to Jack, dislike etched into every line of her face.

‘So, whatever he says he _wants_ to do, you’ll take him anyway, won’t you?’ she asks coldly, and Jack is impressed by the fierce protectiveness she feels for her Omegan partner.

They might not be mated, but she will defend him, nonetheless.

‘I have to,’ Jack says, weary with the responsibility of it. ‘I promise I’ll try to make it as easy on him as I can.’ He nods towards the door where Will escaped. ‘He's changed. It's great you got married, even if you couldn’t Bond.’

Molly looks down, pursing her lips. Her eyes shine; Jack can smell the salt of unshed tears.

‘He's better and better,’ she says, her voice wobbling. ‘With the kids… with me… He doesn't dream so much, now.’

Jack doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing he can say to make it alright.

Molly sniffs and wipes her cheek.

‘He was really obsessed with the dogs for a while,’ she says, swallowing thickly as she remembers the broken Omega she’d met in a trailer park three years ago. ‘Now he just takes care of them. He doesn't talk about them all the time. Doesn't worry about them.’

‘I _know_ what I’m asking,’ Jack says quietly, pulling two photographs from inside his sweater and sliding the images across the table to her. ‘I wish to _God_ I didn’t have to.’

Molly gives him a crooked smile, doubting every syllable of his intent, but she accepts the photos and studies them for a long time. When she passes them back, her shoulders are slumped with weary resignation, and Jack nods.

He’s glad he didn’t have to .

***

That night, alone in their bedroom, Molly decides to raise the issue with Will. He’s sat on the edge of their bed, removing his watch and unlacing his boots, and she snuggles up behind him. There’s a moment of tension when she touches him, just like always, and then he relaxes when she makes a point of avoiding his neck.

She knows how embarrassed he is about the scar; how sensitive the skin still is, and she’s careful not to go near it.

‘How bad is it gonna be,’ she asks, ignoring her guilt in favor of enjoying the sweet scent of him, ‘if you stay here and read about the next one?’

Will glances back at her, shocked to hear the words – _Jack’s_ words – slither from her lips.

‘If you stay,’ Molly persists, sweet and innocent, and utterly naïve of what she’s asking of him – what she’s pushing him towards – ‘and there’s more killing… Maybe it would sour this place for you?’ She manages a shaky little smile, tracing idle patterns on the thick fabric covering his knee. ‘High Noon and all that.’

Will’s muscles stiffen, and his expression sharpens, eyes glowing gold as his crest throbs; angry and insistent.

He has the sudden, irrational urge to cover himself up; to pull away from her so she can’t touch him.

‘Do you _want_ me to go?’ he demands, and Molly swallows, ignoring her immediate, honest answer.

 _No_.

But Jack has legal guardianship over Will; as the only Alpha in his life now that his bond to Hannibal has been severed, he could force him to go, if he had to.

Molly can make it _Will’s_ choice, if nothing else. She can do that for him.

‘I’d have the satisfaction that you did the right thing,’ she offers, smiling sadly. Then, allowing some of her grief and fear to show in her face, _hating_ the way she’s about to manipulate him, she adds, ‘He kills _families_. No one knows how he chooses them. What if he chose us?’

Will flinches, knuckles turning white as he tightens his fists.

‘Don’t say that,’ he pleads. ‘If I… go… I’ll be… different… when I get back.’

 _I’ll be cold,_ he thinks, unsure how to put it into words. _I’ll be cruel_ _. I’ll be the same person I was when I killed and mutilated Randall Tier. When I strung Chiyoh’s prisoner up like a firefly._

The same person he was when he fucked Hannibal, even while his skull was dented from the bone saw.

‘ _I_ won’t,’ Molly promises, kissing his cheek. ‘And the kids won’t.’

Will sighs. He doesn’t know what to say. There isn’t really anything he _can_ say.

He kisses her, instead. Molly parts her lips for him, welcoming him to her when he turns. She lies back on the mattress, hugging him close as he settles between her thighs. She strokes her hands through his curls, pushing the heavy hair back from his face to tenderly stroke across the silvered scar on his forehead.

Will tilts his face away from the touch, kissing her fingertips, instead, and Molly smiles. Her breath hitches when Will sucks one of the digits into his mouth, tonguing up the underside, and he locks eyes with her when he releases it.

‘Sweet man,’ Molly sighs, her skin warming under his touch, arousal fluttering through her to pulse in her groin. ‘My sweet man.’

‘I love you,’ Will whispers, bowing over her again and kissing her with a hunger he hasn’t felt in a long time. A desperate need to be with her; to touch and be touched.

Molly reaches between them and unzips her jeans, pushing them down until Will takes the hint and sits back on his heels to divest her of the thick material. He drops the jeans to the side and dips his head to the plain cotton panties his wife favors, gathering up the rich, musky scent of her and humming when it settles on his tongue.

Molly huffs a breathless laugh – she’ll never quite get used to how much Omegas scent their lovers – and encourages Will to crawl back up her body.

‘Can we get under the covers?’ she asks, her flesh already pebbling in the cold air. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘I’ll warm you up,’ Will says, grinning wickedly before devouring her mouth again. Nonetheless, he leaves her red sweater on and cocoons them in the duvet, keeping as much fabric bunched around them as possible even as his warm hands slip up and round to unclasp Molly’s bra.

‘Do you remember the first time we had sex?’ he asks, pushing the wired cups aside to squeeze and roll Molly’s breast, skimming his palm back and forth over her nipple until it hardens into a tight little nub. ‘I was so nervous but you knew exactly how to make me feel good.’

‘You were pretty skilled yourself,’ Molly reminds him, enjoying the rippling pleasure radiating down from her chest. ‘And an _avid_ learner.’

‘Our honeymoon to The Grand Canyon,’ Will continues, hand moving lower, firm enough not to tickle, skating over the smattering of freckles on Molly’s hip before slipping under the elastic of her panties. ‘Camping under the stars…’

‘The squeaky bed at my parents’ house,’ Molly counters, voice hitching when Will touches her, two fingers gathering up silky wetness before pressing at her entrance and slipping inside, sucked deep and held tight where she so _loves_ having him. ‘Feeling like a teenager all over again because we were trying so hard to be quiet and ended up – _ah –_ giggling the whole time.’

‘Not giggling now,’ Will says, and they kiss, over and over, the air growing hot and damp between them as they begin to move, hips rocking as Will thrusts his fingers inside Molly’s body, crooking the knuckles to drag against the bundle of nerves and build delicious tension in her muscles. ‘You’re so beautiful, Molly.’

‘So are you,’ Molly replies, her cheeks flushed pink, lips swollen and eyes bright. ‘In… _in_ , Will. In… I want to feel you.’

Will slips his fingers free and fumbles to unbuckle his jeans, shoving his boxers down with them until he can release his erection. He pulls Molly’s knickers off and then steadies himself, moaning softly at the feel of heat against the tip. Molly tilts her hips, welcoming him home, and, in one, smooth thrust, they join together.

‘Come here,’ Molly purrs, wrapping her arms and legs tight around him, cradling Will’s face to her chest and establishing a slow, tender rhythm. ‘My wonderful, amazing husband.’

‘Molly…’ Will rocks into her, again and again, nuzzling her cheeks and under her jaw, gathering up the light, sweet scent of her as they move. He rests his lips against her speeding pulse and then suckles a mark into the creamy skin, basking in the gentle affection and warm pride he feels from his Beta partner.

He’s a good man when he’s with Molly. He’s a good father, a good husband, a good provider. He doesn’t need the darkness that Hannibal so carefully cultivated in him. He doesn’t need the monsters and the demons and the violence.

He doesn’t need the thrill of the hunt to feel complete.

He thrusts again, clenching his teeth against a low whine. His heart beats inside a hollow chest, an empty cavern that he’s ignored for so long he’s almost forgotten it’s there.

Almost.

‘Will…?’ Molly shivers when Will pulls out. He hasn’t finished, neither of them have, but this happens sometimes, when he’s particularly upset or distracted.

Will doesn’t speak. He just lowers his mouth to her and nuzzles deep into the thatch of caramel-colored hair. His tongue rasps along her throbbing flesh and Molly moans, surprised by how _hot_ he feels. He isn’t due a Heat – he’s religious in taking his suppressants – so this must just be a response to his distress.

‘It’s okay, baby,’ she whispers, looking down and stroking his hair as he licks and sucks her towards orgasm. ‘It’s okay, sweet man. I’ve got you.’

Will slides his fingers back inside her, drawing her closer and closer to the edge. Molly tightens around him, clenching and relaxing in a punishing rhythm, and Will drives her on, needing her to feel good.

One of them should feel good, at least.

‘Oh, there, _there_ ,’ Molly breathes, eyes fluttering closed and head dropping back as a wave of white pleasure breaks over her, tear-inducing and wonderful as Will continues to stroke her through a shuddering climax.

It feels as if it goes on forever, until she’s over-sensitive and boneless, and laughs when she manages to push him away.

Will kicks his jeans the rest of the way off and removes his sweater, leaving the gray t-shirt on underneath.

He’s never slept naked beside her, not even after sex.

‘Damn,’ Molly says, rolling onto her side and smiling up at him, determined to put him back at ease. ‘ _That_ was amazing.’

Will smiles and licks his lips, appreciating the taste of her on his skin. He goes to the dresser and fetches himself a fresh pair of pajama trousers, his gaze lingering on Molly, flushed and sweaty and beautiful, in the tangled covers of their bed.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he says, and moves into the adjacent bathroom to brush his teeth. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

‘Never,’ Molly promises, and they both know it’s more than just the bed. More than just him leaving her to freshen up.

It’s a plea for her to stay with him, no matter what happens in Buffalo and Chicago.

No matter how much he changes.

***

Tiny clicks of blinking eyes. The rasp of steady breathing, in and out of lungs. The dissonant thuds of two heartbeats, their rhythms mismatched and unbalanced. 

Will can’t sleep.

He’s uncomfortable. Itching in random places. Aching, thirsty and _hot_. Too hot. Sweating, his t-shirt sticking to his back and making his boxers cling.

He’s not due a Heat. He’s not, it’s just been a long time since his insomnia was this bad.

Not since the trial…

He can’t stop thinking. He can’t stop thinking about the Leeds and the Jacobis.

Dead children. Dead Omegas. Dead Alphas. Dead families wiped out of existence by one crazy man.

_My foundations are shifting sands and I have no paddle._

Pushing the covers back, he very quietly pads to the dresser against the far wall and slides open the middle drawer. At the back, tucked away and hidden beneath thick winter socks and spare sweaters is an envelope.

Will tugs it free, holding it carefully between his hands.

Should he?

 _Can_ he?

Half an hour later, he’s sat on the couch in front of a crackling fire in the living room. The dogs mill around him, breathing and snuffling, enjoying the warmth, and Will is bundled up in a cable-knit sweater with a high neck; an unconscious attempt to shield his neck from unwanted eyes.

The outer envelope is plain brown, wax-sealed and stamped with the FBI Headquarters return address.

The envelope inside, however, is thick and heavy, good quality paper and bearing his name in achingly familiar copperplate handwriting.

_Mr Will Graham._

He’s had the letter for weeks. The moment he received it, opened it, and saw the font, he’d put it away. He hadn’t told Molly about it. Hadn’t told anyone… He’d just… Put it away. The same way he’d put everything from his old life “away”.

He probably should have burned it.

Taking a deep breath, Will slides his thumb under the lip of the envelope and tugs. The seal breaks and releases a waft of Hannibal’s scent – thick, rich, _succulent_ – into the air. The moment Will smells it, tastes it, the musk settling onto his tongue like sugar, his throat aches and the crest scar on the back of his neck sears with pain.

Apprehension battles wariness. Will pulls the letter from the envelope and, as he does, a neatly folded newspaper article slips to the floor.

It’s the old headline of _The Buffalo Citizen_. “Tooth Fairy Massacres Perfect Families.”

Swallowing thickly, his scent glands swelling under his jaw, Will ignores the newspaper article in favor of unfolding the letter.

 _‘Dear Will,_ ’ he reads, Hannibal’s writing as elegant in pencil as it is in ink. Will can _hear_ him, speaking the words, his voice a low, smooth purr as he pours poison into Will’s ear. _‘We have all found a new life, but our old lives hover in the shadows. Soon enough, I fear Jack Crawford will come knocking. I would encourage, as a friend, as your former mate, not to step back through the door he holds open. It’s dark on the other side, and madness is waiting.’_

The words are a chill echo of Will’s own fevered thoughts, when he was trapped in his own shattered psyche, unable to fight his way back to the surface of tortured dreams.

The teacup shatters and, for just a moment, he can’t remember who he is. He can’t remember anything… He can’t… He _can’t_ –

He bends to pick up the clipping, considering it for a moment. Then, with a low, furious growl, he tosses both letter and newspaper article into the fire.

‘It’s two thirty-six am,’ he whispers, lifting golden eyes to the clock on the mantlepiece, barely able to see for how much he’s shaking. ‘I’m at Moosehead Lake, Maine. My name is Will Graham.’

 _A simple reminder,_ Hannibal had said, once, even as he set his mind on fire and tried to mold him from the ashes that remained. _A handle to reality for you to hold onto… and know you are alive._

***

‘I’ll call you when I land,’ Will says, hugging Molly tight the next morning. It’s early, and still dark, but Walter and the twins are up to say goodbye, coats, hats and gloves on over their thermal pajamas. ‘I’ll be home as soon as I can.’

‘We know you will,’ Molly replies, kissing his flushed cheek before releasing him.

Will crouches before Gracie and Daniel.

‘Be good for Molly,’ he says, signing for Danny and then pulling them into an equally close embrace. ‘Take care of each other. I love you, _so_ much.’

‘Are you going to catch the bad man, Daddy?’ Gracie asks, gazing up with such sincerity that Will can’t speak for the lump in his throat. He swallows, trying to dislodge it, but can only nod mutely and hug her again when she hands him a piece of folded paper. ‘I drew a picture for you, so you won’t miss us.’

‘I’ll miss you anyway, baby girl,’ Will whispers, tears pricking his eyes as he places adoring kisses on each child’s forehead. ‘And you, my gorgeous boy. I’ll miss you so much.’

‘You’ll come back,’ Gracie says, more confident that Will felt. ‘You always do.’

‘I _promise_.’ Will takes the paper from his daughter and slips it, securely, in the breast pocket of his coat, over his heart. Then, rising to stand, he offers his hand to Wally for either a shake or a hug. ‘Take care of your Mom for me, won’t you?’

Wally hugs him and Will purrs, just once, nuzzling his soft brown hair and scenting him before they step apart.

‘So, er, all the ingredients for the dogs’ food is in the pantry,’ Will says, eyes on Molly again, even as Jack rolls down the window to chivvy him along. ‘Be careful with Buster and Lulu – they seem to be fighting over their share more than usual… And Winston is due his vaccination at the vet next month.’

‘Will, it’s going to be _fine_ ,’ Molly says, stepping close and cupping each side of his face. She stares into his golden eyes, hating the way fear makes them shine, and places a final kiss on his lips. ‘You’re going to be _fine_. Just promise me you’ll come home as soon as you can.’

‘I will,’ Will says hoarsely, biting his tongue to silence the pitiful whine fighting to free itself from his throat and comforting himself with a last look at the twins. At his children; his precious boy and girl. ‘I’ll come home. I promise.’

***

Buffalo lies under a blanket of stars, the inky sky broken by a silver crescent of light. There’s one week to go until the next full moon and Will’s tension mounts as he climbs the steps to the Leeds’s front porch.

He’s parked two blocks away, walking through the cold night with the police report tucked under his arm.

The house, set back from the street, is shrouded in darkness. Bare windows. Sealed doors. A dog kennel sits, empty, in the corner of the deck, a blanket and water bowl evidence of its former occupant. Will frowns, making a note to ask Jack about the dog. Must be the Spaniel from the photograph, but where is she?

A car drives past. It doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop. Probably a neighbor; a murder house is ugly to neighbors. Only outsiders and children stare.

Will tries to be still. He holds his breath when the beam of his flashlight falls on the circle of cut glass in the front door; expertly made by an industrial glass-cutter.

_Not fond of locks._

He’s been given a spare key, and uses it now to cut the crime scene tape before unlocking the door. It moves on silent hinges and he steps across the threshold, taking a slow, deep breath.

He feels pain. Rage… _Hatred_. Tastes the metallic tang of old blood, sweet with the first hint of rot and smells a myriad of scents. The Leeds family permeates the air most thoroughly, crisscrossing each other again and again; testament to a life lived together. But, slicing through all of that, Will smells a burnt, bitter stench. Something… _wrong_. Corrupt.

The killer.

He wants to turn on the lights. Wants to put on his shiny FBI Special Investigator badge and make some official noises to justify himself to the silent house where four people have died.

He doesn’t. He just follows the corrupted scent deeper into the kitchen, past the bowl of oranges on the counter. Past the kitchen range, lit by two blue pilot-lights.

The scent goes directly to the refrigerator and Will opens the door, bottles clinking faintly as pale light washes over him. He sees evidence of family life; juice, milk and healthy snacks. Pots of chocolate pudding and sliced luncheon meat for sandwiches.

There’s a small wheel of cheese on the top shelf. Half-unwrapped, missing a chunk. A decisive bite has been taken, leaving dents in the soft cheddar.

The thermostat clicks and Will jumps, his heart racing. He closes the door, working hard to control the fear sharpening his senses to the point of pain, and moves on.

He follows the scent through the living room and towards the stairs. Yellow markers indicate droplets and smears of blood, dried to a crust now on the floorboards. A soleprint and toes… The killer walked, barefoot, through the house, covered in the blood of his victims.

_Why?_

Will is careful to avoid the evidence as he ascends to the next floor. Dread is a heavy lump of ice in his gut and he’s barely breathing, knowing that what he feels now is only going to get worse when he sees the rooms where the Leeds family died.

The first room is the twin boys’ bedroom. Will’s flashlight casts a brutal glare over the rumpled bedding, following the red splashes until it highlights the places where the children were killed. The light reveals the dead youngsters, like a wormhole through time to show how they were found and photographed by the police.

Will knows he’ll never get those images out of his mind. They’ll haunt him until the day he dies.

_They were only a year older than Daniel and Gracie._

He retreats from the room, the back of his nest prickling, and swings his light across the hallway.

Charles Leeds comes into focus; an image scarred on Will’s retinas from careful examination of the file earlier today. The Alpha had fallen against the wall, clearly on his way to the boys’ bedroom, and bled out.

The upstairs hallway mirror has been smashed. Its shards shine brilliantly as Will plays the flashlight over them. Cracks. Splinters. Chunks gone, leaving the bare wood of the frame behind.

_Missing pieces of a whole._

He knows how that feels.

The door at the end of the hall stands open. The outer edge of the flashlight beam throws more bloodstains and drag marks into sharp relief.

Will doesn’t want to look. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to look.

But he has to.

He steps across the threshold of the master bedroom. His eyes have adjusted but the terror gripping him keeps him from seeing clearly. He sees the shapes of furniture. Strings of red wool where the forensic analysts have tried to reconstruct the source of each bloodstain. Ominous dark designs on the walls.

Will pauses, his gloved finger hovering over the light switch. It is smeared with Mr Leeds’ blood and hair.

 _Still,_ he begs his beating heart. His buzzing mind. _Be still… Be still._

He takes a breath, drowning in the hot, thick scent of the killer, and flicks the switch.

The air screams. There’s blood everywhere. So much blood. It’s splashed on the walls, up the headboard, across the ceiling… The bed is a mess of it, the mattress so sodden it still gleams wetly.

It’s nothing like the elegant death tableaus Hannibal gave him. Nothing like Angel Maker or even the goddamn _totem_ _of corpses_.

It’s worse than the Hobbs’ kitchen. Jagged and jarring. A new level of insanity.

Will can feel himself shaking. He struggles to gather his composure – he can feel his mind splintering, fear lapping at the edges of his resolve, wearing him down like waves against sandstone – but he manages to open the case file.

He can do this.

He _has_ to do this.

He can see and hear better when he’s afraid. He _understands_ better when he’s afraid.

And he is so very, _very_ afraid.

The words dance and jump before his eyes. Snatches of information – the light on the vent-hood over the stove and the porch light had been on when the police arrived. The number and variety of bloodstains was inconsistent with the locations of the victims. Mr Leeds had a superficial ligature mark around his chest, believed to be post-mortem.

Will’s rapid, panicked pants slow of their own accord. He feels the dark current welling inside him, bubbling up with eager anticipation, and his eyes slip shut.

The pendulum swings and madness follows.

_Now._

Time reverses. The bloodstains are gone. The mirror is whole. Will is the killer, standing outside the porch door with a glass-cutter in his gloved hands.

 _Now_.

He presses the suction cup to the pane and turns the dial on the cutter, over and over and over until the glass pops out. It’s a simple matter, then, of curving his hand in to flip the latch and open the door.

He is inside.

He goes straight to the stairs – they don’t make a sound as he climbs. He is filled with dark, sure purpose.

The master bedroom door is open. He enters without turning on the light and uses a switchblade to cut Mr Leeds’ throat as he lies asleep beside his mate. As the Alpha struggles, his barely-waking brain unable to understand that he is dying, Will moves to turn on the overhead light. It startles Mrs. Leeds awake and Will shoots her as she rises. The bullet enters to the right of her navel and lodges in her lumbar spine, silencing her scream.

Mr Leeds rises, his throat cut, and pushes carelessly past Will. He is determined to get to his children. To protect them, as he could not protect his Omega.

Will sneers at him. _Pathetic_.

He shoves him to the floor, causing another splash of red to hit the nightstand. Stares down at Mrs. Leeds, who whimpers and mewls panicked pleas for mercy, bleeding into the covers of her nest.

Now for the children.

He shoots one of the two boys in bed. The other has woken, and seeks refuge under the bed. He sobs when Will drags him out by his ankles, but he is not the target, and he dies quickly with a bullet to the brain.

Mr Leeds, drawing upon the last of his Alphan strength, staggers out into the hallway. He is losing gallons of blood, suffocating as it fills his lungs, and falls to die outside his sons’ room.

_You couldn’t save anyone, could you?_

Leaving the dead for the moment, Will begins to smash the mirrors. He collects pieces as he goes, but he smashes them all. Every surface cracks, distorting his reflection.

He strangles Mrs. Leeds, crouching atop her as he chokes the last of the life from her. He places shards of mirror inside her eyelids. In her mouth. Between her labia. He does the same to Charles and his sons – their eyes and mouths glint with mirrored glass – and he lines them up against the wall so they can watch as he mounts her, bites her, claims her. As he uses his teeth to rip the ruined crest from the back of her neck before fucking her, again and again, in every orifice.

It is a Rutting frenzy. An Alpha mad with the need to mate.

Will’s body sears with heat at the knowledge of it, even as his stomach swirls with nausea.

When he’s done, he puts the family back where he killed them. All but Mrs. Leeds. She remains the focal point of his masterpiece. She remains the true purpose of his attack.

_I wanted you to watch what I did to her. I wanted you to see._

Hobbs’ sibilant whisper feels too close. Rotten breath brushes his ear and Will flinches. He comes back to himself, shuddering and sobbing, drenched in cold sweat and keening like a wounded animal.

God… He can’t keep _doing_ this.

He dry-heaves in the Leeds’ family bathroom toilet. Rinses the bitter taste of bile from his mouth at the sink and tries not to look at the smashed mirror.

The medicine cabinet is neat and orderly. Emergency Neutralizer shots. Razors and shaving cream. Painkillers. There are pantyhose drying on the towel racks. Molly dries hers in just the same way and the homeliness of it pierces him.

Will heaves again but there’s nothing to throw up.

He hasn’t eaten since yesterday.

When he’s back in the master bedroom, a thought occurs to him with such speed and clarity that he has to say it aloud.

‘Talcum powder on the body. There’s none in the house.’

He checks the report again, flicking through the inventory, but no. Nothing.

He stares down at his own gloves – black now, instead of standard-issue white – and, with sickening realization, draws off the blood-slicked latex. Talc drifts down from inside, dusting across Mrs. Leeds’s chewed, scratched breasts.

‘I have to touch her,’ Will whispers, and he sees the Omega’s eyes, mouth and crotch chakras begin to glow, pulsing with a warm, welcoming light.

He feels… pleased. Honored by the tribute. Proud to have made it… Grateful that it is well received.

As Will reaches out to touch the golden Omega, clothed in sunlight, red strings fan into the air behind him, creating his wings.

‘ _This_ ,’ he purrs, splaying his bare hand over the place where Mrs. Leeds’s heartbeat slowly fades, ‘is _my_ design.’

***

It’s only when he gets back to the hotel that Will realizes how _much_ he’s sweated. It’s soaked through his t-shirt, his shirt _and_ his sweater, and his boxers are damp with it. If he’d been wearing light-colored jeans, they’d show it.

There’s a conference being held in the hotel’s convention hall and Will can hear snatches of voices when the doors open. Two Alphas stumble out into the lobby, bleary-eyed and using each other to stay upright, and Will is dimly aware that his scent-blockers must have worn off, because he catches them staring hungrily as he checks himself in.

‘Goddamn,’ one of them mutters, not as quiet as he thinks he is, ‘I’d love to tear off a piece of _that_.’

‘Fuck him till his nose bleeds,’ the other one growls, and Will has to clench his teeth to keep from snarling at them. He’s tired and they’re riled up; it wouldn’t end well.

The receptionist, a pretty Beta woman, gives him a sympathetic look and points to the room number written on his keycard, instead of saying it aloud.

‘Thank you,’ Will says, sharing a nod of understanding.

She’s been harassed too many times in her short life already not to help another vulnerable person.

Will moves to the elevator and presses the button for the third floor. He’s actually on five, but he doesn’t want the Alphas to know that.

Thankfully, they stagger towards the bathroom, instead, sniggering like horny teenagers and knocking into an armchair.

Will breathes a sigh of relief when the elevator doors ping shut and he’s safely away from them.

His head is pounding, neck and shoulder muscles like stone from the tension he’s been carrying ever since Jack arrived in Maine. When he gets to the hotel room, he pours himself two fingers of whiskey – having purchased a bottle and some Aspirin from an all-night pharmacy – and drinks it before calling Jack.

Even at two-thirty a.m., the Alpha sounds sharp and focused.

‘Crawford.’

‘It’s me,’ Will says, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘You need to call Price and Zeller. There’s a cheese wheel in the refrigerator, it looks like the killer bit it. Got a good set of teeth marks.’

‘And Price?’ Jack asks, both of them knowing what the Betas specialize in. ‘Buffalo PD already dusted for prints. Everything was smooth or smudged; the lab swore he wore gloves the whole time.’

‘No, no, he had to touch her,’ Will insists. ‘With his bare hands. He had to… he _had_ to, Jack…’

‘Okay, okay,’ Jack says, soothing him. ‘I’ll get them both down here first thing.’ He huffs. ‘They’ll have to hurry; the funeral’s this afternoon.’ There’s a pause, and then the Alpha speaks more softly. ‘You sound exhausted, Will. Try to get some sleep, okay? The briefing’s at 8.’

‘Yeah.’ Will doesn’t promise anything. He knows better than that. He hangs up and then stares at his cell phone.

He wants to call home. He wants to speak to Molly, and video call Walter and the twins. He wants to curl up with his family and be quiet and still and safe.

But he can’t. It’s the middle of the night there, as well as here, and he won’t disturb them.

Instead, Will fumbles to pull Gracie’s drawing from his coat pocket. The paper holds their lingering scents, just as Hannibal’s letter had, and he brings it to his nose to scent them deeply.

Curling onto his side, Will wraps the comforter up and over his head, snuggling down into his makeshift nest and resolutely closing his eyes as he tries to will himself to sleep, surrounded by the smell of family.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll get an hour or two before the nightmares hit.

***

Special Agent Jimmy Price _hates_ flying. He also hates having to rush to places because other forensic specialists can’t do their damn _jobs_.

But, what he hates even more than all that, is having his credentials _questioned_ , especially at six o’clock in the morning.

‘I was told you were told I was coming,’ he says testily, preparing his equipment so he can begin whenever the uptight Mr Lombard _deigns_ to give him the all-clear. ‘Were you not told?’

‘Your office or agency called me, of course,’ the Funeral Director replies, still scrutinizing Price’s FBI ID, his eyes heavily tinged red. ‘But last night we had to get the police to remove an obnoxious flame-haired woman trying to take pictures. I'm being very careful; I'm sure you understand, Mr. Price.’

‘Agent,’ Jimmy corrects, leaning across the slab holding Mrs. Leeds’ bagged body. ‘Special.’

He also hates Alphas who assume that a Beta can’t hold a position of authority. Mr Lombard reeks of such prejudice, and it rankles Jimmy to no end.

‘Special Agent Price,’ Mr Lombard says, sounding annoyed at the chastisement. ‘The bodies were only released to us at one o’clock this morning and the funeral’s at five this afternoon. We simply _can’t_ delay it.’

‘This won’t take very long,’ Jimmy assures him. ‘I’ll need one reasonably-intelligent assistant, if you have one.’

Before Mr Lombard can reply or object again, there’s a crash as Brian Zeller stumbles into the room, pushing three precariously balanced equipment cases and carrying a heavy camera bag and tripod.

‘Cancel the reasonably-intelligent assistant,’ Price says, grinning at his flushed, breathless colleague. ‘Mine just showed up.’

‘I can't help you with your thing. I've got a thing,’ Brian replies, waving him away and hefting the heavy satchel from his aching shoulder.

‘What thing do _you_ got?’ Jimmy asks, offended at the implication of it being more important than _his_ thing.

Mr Lombard watches the whole exchange like a tennis match, amazed by the verbal sparring between the two Betas.

‘I'm reconstructing teeth from bite marks on Mrs. Leeds and this mini cheddar cheese wheel from her refrigerator,’ Brian says, holding up a little evidence baggy with the snack inside. ‘Tooth Fairy was feeling peckish.’

‘Well, we’ll double-Dutch,’ Jimmy says briskly, snapping on blue gloves as Mr Lombard moves to unzip the body-bag holding Mrs. Leeds. ‘Woman’s gotta get in the ground.’

The Alphan Funeral Director turns pasty white when he sees the mauled, mutilated Omega, and he quickly excuses himself once Zeller starts snapping photographs of the bite-marks, and the ragged mess of flesh where her Bonding Crest used to be.

The two Betas, undisturbed by the state of the body, work quickly and efficiently, cataloguing the wounds first and then dusting the corneas for prints. Price holds his breath, his hands steady as a surgeon’s as he presses a tiny strip of plastic over the powder now coating Mrs. Leeds’ dull, dead eyes.

‘Voila,’ he says quietly, holding the print up to the light. ‘Jack was right. He took his gloves off.’

Zeller growled and shook his head.

‘Son of a bitch.’

***

‘He had to touch her,’ Will says to Jack in greeting.

It’s 7.50am and they’re in the lobby outside the main briefing room of the Buffalo Police Headquarters. Jack hands Will a coffee from the machine, watching him carefully as Will uncaps the paper cup to blow on the drink to cool it before taking a sip. Behind the tinted lenses of his glasses, the Omega’s eyes are dull with fatigue and ringed with shadows.

‘I’ve got Zeller and Price there as we speak,’ he promises. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

Will shrugs and sips more coffee.

‘An hour, maybe two.’ Will flinches when the briefing room door opens. He feels raw; like the outer layer of his skin has been peeled off. The glare of the lights is too harsh. The smell of antiseptic and ink and gunpowder and _Alphas_ is overwhelming.

‘They’re ready,’ someone murmurs, and then Jack is leading him into the briefing room and they’re taking seats on the back row.

‘– so house-to-house interviews will continue for a radius of four additional blocks around the scene,’ Chief of Police Springfield is saying, his attention on the officers and Detectives before him. ‘Airport and hotel details will make the rounds again today. Yes, _again_. Catch every maid and attendant, as well as the desk people. He had to clean up somewhere, and he may have left a mess. If you _find_ somebody who cleaned up a mess, you roust whoever’s in the room, seal it and get on the horn to Forensics double-quick.’

‘What about the teeth cast the FBI are working on?’ It’s the Public Relations Officer who speaks, preparing notes for Police Commissioner Lewis to use at his nine o’clock press conference. ‘The press is going to ask why it’ll take days to get a dental representation. Would it be fair to say that the delays are being caused by the FBI, and not us?’

Springfield glances towards Jack, who visibly bristles at the accusation. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and Jack strides up to the front of the room.

‘The last thing anyone needs is a pissing contest between the FBI and Buffalo PD,’ he says, voice booming out across the hall. ‘We’re all after the same thing, folks. I don’t give a damn who gets the collar; if the person who did this gets hit by a garbage truck tomorrow that would suit be just fine, as long as it gets him off the streets. I’m sure you all feel the same way.’

The sea of faces don’t change much, but there isn’t quite the air of open hostility as before.

Jack sighs, and then adds,

‘We’ll share whatever leads we have with you.’

_And hope that you do the same for us._

Chief of Police Springfield looks over at Will.

‘That your Special Investigator?’ he asks, eyes narrowing in consideration when Jack nods. ‘Why don’t you come on up, son? Maybe you can share some of your thoughts.’

_No… No, please, no…_

Will feels himself visibly shrink, recoiling from the attention like a shadow fleeing the light, but Jack’s expression is closed and there’s no way of escaping.

As he makes his way past the rows of Alpha and Beta law enforcement, he feels their eyes burn into the back of his head. He hears their whispers about his caste – _Omega, no, surely not –_ turn into murmured questions about why he looks so familiar.

‘Wasn’t he Bonded to Hannibal Lecter?’

‘Frankenstein’s Bride, that one.’

‘Jesus, how can he show his _face?’_

‘Think he’s still single?’

Trying hard not to throw up, Will settles his gaze over the heads of the assembled crowd, fixing on a point between the door and the suspended ceiling.

‘Mrs. Leeds and Ezra Jacobi were the primary targets,’ he says, his voice flat with the effort of fending off the press of emotions coming from the people amassed before him. ‘The others,’ he shrugs, ‘were killed just to complete his fantasy.’

‘I find that hard to accept,’ one Detective mutters, loudly enough to interrupt, and Will shifts his blank stare towards him, acknowledging the accusation.

‘This wasn’t _random,_ ’ he replies, blandly. ‘This wasn’t some killing frenzy. He was _never_ out of control. The attacks were highly organized, the Omegas carefully chosen.’ Slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, Will clutches his fist tight around Gracie’s drawing, drawing strength from it. ‘We don’t know _how_ he’s choosing them, or why; they lived in different States and they never met, but there’ll be _some_ connection. There’ll be _some_ common factor, and _that’s_ how you’ll catch him.’

‘Thank you, Mr Graham,’ Springfield says, and Jack gives Will’s elbow a reassuring squeeze before they both head back to their seats. Turning to address his staff again, the Chief of Police adds, ‘One other thing. I’ve heard officers in this command unit referring to the killer as The Tooth Fairy.’ There was an uncomfortable shifting in chairs, like the rustling of a breeze, and Springfield scowled. ‘Now, I don’t care _what_ you call him among yourselves. I realize you have to call him something, but I had better not hear _any_ member of this department refer to him as The Tooth Fairy in public. It sounds flippant. Neither will you use that name on _any_ internal memoranda.’ A beat. Letting the warning sink in. ‘That’s all.’

The officers and detectives filed from the room, collecting their assignments from the desk on their way out. Will kept his head down and eyes averted, especially when the Alphas moved close to him, and he didn’t remove his glasses until he and Jack were outside in the chill air of the parking lot again.

‘That was good, Will,’ Jack says, buttoning up his coat as they waited for their cab to arrive.

‘That was… broad strokes,’ Will argues, shaking his head. ‘He’s still got no face to me, Jack.’

Jack hums, considering his assessment. He doesn’t say anything, though, until they’re in the back of the car headed for the airport. Then,

‘You did good work today, Will. I want you to know that.’

Will stares out of the window, hunched down in the leather-polish-scented seat and absently watching the city pass them by. He doesn’t reply.

‘Are you going to call Molly?’ Jack nudges, glancing up from the crime report in time to see the other man flinch.

‘I’ll call her from the hotel later,’ Will mumbles, absently reaching up to fiddle with the collar pressing against the back of his neck. He rolls his shoulders, hot and irritated, and rolls the window down a fraction to let cool air into the vehicle. ‘Did you say my bags have been picked up?’

‘They’re already waiting in your new hotel room,’ Jack assures him. ‘You can get settled in after we’re briefed by Jimmy.’

Will doesn’t say anything. He sinks into nervous silence, chewing on his lower lip and trying not to see the dead Leeds family whenever he closes his eyes.

Tries not to remember the condescending smile on Ted Numan’s face when the Director of Human Resources fired him for being an Omega.

Jack works the whole time they’re travelling. He makes phone calls, following up on leads and chasing results, and Will lets his mind drift. He doesn’t bother trying to read the book he’d brought with him for the flight; instead, he turns his attention inwards, taking a seat on one of the wooden pews in the Norman Chapel of Palermo.

The scent of incense fills the air. Dust motes hang in the shafts of sunlight spilling through the high windows, and Will smiles for the first time since leaving home when he hears the faint, straining notes of Bach.

The sound is distant; it comes from another part of his Memory Palace, carried on the breeze whispering through open doors. He could follow the sound, track it to its source, but Will finds himself reluctant to tread beyond the foyer.

_It’s dark on the other side. And madness is waiting._

He contents himself with gazing up at the frescoed ceiling, basking in a warm glow of affection, and when Jack rouses him at Dulles International Airport, Virginia, he feels more refreshed than he has in days.

Maybe this won’t be as bad as he’d feared.

***

‘It’s a partial,’ Price says, showing Jack the blown-up image of Mrs. Leeds’ left eye, and the print he’d managed to lift from the cornea. ‘Probably a thumb.’

‘Jimmy, you’re the light of my life,’ Jack says, and Jimmy nods, preening at the praise.

‘I know. The print was smudged,’ he continues, stealing repeated glances at Will. ‘Never would've seen it, but it stood out against an eight-ball hemorrhage… I just…You… er…’ He blinks at the Omega. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just surprised to see you _back…?_ He trails off hopefully, but Will doesn’t say anything, just lowers his eyes and stares, hard, at the floor instead of the images of dead bodies.

Brian leans round from where he’s standing behind him and smiles.

‘ _Welcome_ back,’ he says, and Will manages a small, tight smile.

‘It's good to see you,’ Jimmy adds, and Will nods, just once, before Jack prompts the Beta Forensic Specialist to continue. ‘Okay, so the mirror pieces all had those smooth prints. Forefinger on the back of the piece wedged in her labia, a smudged thumb on the front.’

‘He polished it after he placed it,’ Will explains, ‘so he could see his face in there.’

‘One in her mouth was obscured with blood,’ Jimmy says. ‘Same with the eyes. Ran an AFIS. He's not in the print index.’

As he speaks, Zeller leaves to fetch a wheeled trolley, on which sits a Lucite stand displaying a set of teeth, molded in resin, with a hinge.

‘We could always run a “Have-You-Seen-These-Teeth?” sort of APB,’ he says, presenting the cast with a flourish. ‘They’re distinctive. Pegged lateral incisors, chipped fangs… I mean, the teeth are _all_ crooked… A corner is missing from this central incisor. The other incisor is grooved, here. It looks like a "tailor's notch," the kind of wear you get biting thread.’

‘A snaggle-toothed son of a bitch,’ Jack growls, staring at the unique teeth of their killer.

‘And he bites,’ Zeller adds, making the jaws snap shut in the same way that the killer had done on Mrs. Leeds and Ezra Jacobi. ‘A _lot_.’

‘He may have a history of biting in lesser assaults,’ Will murmurs, remembering the hunger he’d felt at the Leeds’ house. The need to sink his fangs into flesh and feel it give. The need to claim. To _own_. ‘It may be a fighting pattern as much as sexual behavior.’

‘What’s he fighting, Will?’ Jack asks, frowning curiously. Will thinks, but he doesn’t know. He’s missing too many pieces of the puzzle.

It doesn’t elude him that he’d never needed all the pieces, before. He’d never needed as much evidence as he’s relying on, now.

He’d never felt as unsure or blind.

What he’d said to Jack back at the lake is true. He doesn’t think about this stuff anymore. And six years is a long time.

Maybe it’s time to go home.

***

The bathroom glass in this motel is smaller than the one in Buffalo, so Will’s two fingers of whiskey looks like a lot. He doesn’t care, though; just gulps half of it back and appreciates the way the liquor burns his throat on the way down.

He puts the cardboard box of evidence on the dresser, and then put it away inside a drawer where he won’t see it. He’s had enough of the wide-eyed dead.

He calls Molly, wanting to hear her voice. To have her tell him about her day and call him her sweet man.

 _Please,_ he thinks, listening to the tones go on and on. _Please answer. Please don’t leave me alone with this._

It’s half past seven. Maybe Molly’s taken the kids out to dinner? Take their mind off things. Maybe her cell is on silent after a day of work. Maybe… maybe…

Maybe they’re outside, tucked up together in a nest of blankets, watching shooting stars.

After the seventh ring, Will gives up. Gulps the rest of his whiskey and then braces himself on the edge of the bed.

His mind is a busy rooming house with arguments all around him, fighting somewhere down the hall. He’s numb and empty, far too empty, and he wants so badly to be in Molly’s arms, held in her warm embrace.

_Alpha._

He shudders. He’s too hot. Flushed cheeks and sweaty brow. His shoulders are like stone again and his neck… Christ, his _neck_ …

He wants to touch, to squeeze and massage the nape until he’s relaxed but he can’t bring himself to actually _touch_ it. Not when he can still taste Mrs. Leeds’ blood on his tongue. When he can still hear her moaned pleas to _just let her die._ To make the pain stop… To make it all go away.

_Put your head back. Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream._

Hannibal’s voice comes as a low, sensual purr, and Will’s breath hitches on a sob. He forces himself to lie down, flat on his back, and stares up at the beige ceiling. A single tear tracks down his cheek and he thinks of Mrs. Leeds. Blood had run from her mirrored eyes just like his saltwater wetness, like the legs of spectacles over her temples and ears.

_I can’t see his face, Jack. I have no idea who he is._

It isn’t just about reconstructing the thinking using the evidence. It’s… like faith. And he lost his faith six years ago, when he watched Hannibal allow himself to be shackled and escorted away by the FBI.

He misses him so much.

The thought comes, unbidden. Insidious. Relentless.

Will rolls onto his side and stuffs his knuckles between his teeth, biting hard enough to draw blood. He stifles a whimper, and then another, and then he’s shaking with the force of suppressing a piercing howl that threatens to bring every Alpha in the building rushing to break down his door.

_Fuck… Fuck, fuck! I can’t do this! I can’t… I can’t do this!_

Imaginary fingers stroke through his hair, tangling in the curls and scraping across his scalp. Will has no idea how long he lies there, hugging his knees to his chest, feeling his heart break in two, all the while with strong, Alpha hands comforting him. Lips ghost across his cheek, his temple, across the silver scar on his forehead, and Will surprises himself with the rasping purr that rises, instinctive and uninhibited.

He rolls towards the touch, desperate for more.

_Alpha…_

The bed dips away from him and Will chases the weight but his fingers grasp nothing but air. He stares at the empty pillow beside him, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, and something hard loosens from deep inside him.

He knows what he needs to do.

***

The next morning, he meets Jack in his office at Quantico.

‘You were asking about the dog?’ Jack says, glancing up from over the top of his half-moon spectacles as he inspected the file on the desk before him. ‘Last night, a vet called the police. Leeds and one of the twins took the dog into the vets the afternoon before they were killed.’

‘What’s gonna happen to it?’ Will asks, his eyes glowing gold, burning more brightly when Jack removes his glasses with a weary sigh.

‘Please,’ the Alpha groans, ‘don’t worry about the dog.’

Will snorts and rolls his eyes, lips pulling up into a bitter smile.

‘What do you expect me to do?’

‘The best you _can_ , that’s all,’ Jack replies. ‘Busywork's been a narcotic for me sometimes, especially after I quit the booze. For you too, I think.’

‘There is something else I can do,’ Will says, almost too quietly for Jack to hear. He tilts his head, unconsciously baring the side of his throat in a subtly appeasing gesture, even as sweet Omegan pheromones roll off him. ‘I can _wait_ … until I’m driven to it by desperation… in the last days before the full moon… Or…’ He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his fluttering pulse. ‘I could do it _now_ … while it might be of some use.’

He can feel how pained and pleading his expression is, but Jack is more sickened by the _hope_ in his eyes.

Hope, he knows, that the mere idea of _seeing_ Hannibal Lecter again has created in him.

But he has to ask. He has to know for sure.

He settles his weight on his elbows and rests his chin on his clasped hands, looking up from under furrowed brows.

‘Is there an _opinion_ that you want, Will?’

‘It’s… a _mindset_ that I need to recover,’ Will explains, holding Jack’s gaze with a daring he never would have managed before. With a certainty he never would have felt. But he knows, now. He’s known all along, really. Last night just confirmed it for him.

‘I have to see Hannibal.’

***

It takes less than three hours for Jack to arrange the visit. Will drives himself there, taking a rental car instead of one of the FBI SUVs because he can’t stand the idea of the cloying, choking scent of foreign Alphas all around him.

It takes him twenty minutes to gather enough courage to go into the building that still haunts his nightmares, and he pauses several times on his way up the steps. He stares at the gray building, loathing every brick, every pane of glass, every plank of wood. 

He tastes the powdery mashed potato and soggy vegetables of the meals Matthew Brown serves to him. Feels the soreness at his inner thighs and across the nape of his neck, where the rough fabric of the hospital boxers and uniform chafes his sensitive skin.

An orderly greets him at Reception. Will has no idea what he’s saying. It’s as if he’s underwater, and everything is muted.

He follows the white-clad Beta through the halls, his heart lurching when he sees the all-too-familiar door leading to his own former cell block.

Hannibal, however, doesn’t appear to be kept with the regular inmates. They ride the elevator to the top floor, away from the muffled screams of demented minds.

The scent of incense grows stronger. Will can hear the hush of prayer; religious fervor and awe for the divine. White tiled floors give way to age-worn marble, graven with a skull, and overhead bulbs become softer. Muted. Sunlight and candles.

He’s in the Normal Chapel again. The foyer to a Memory Palace that he shares with Hannibal.

His own rooms have fallen into disrepair, long-since abandoned and carefully avoided, even in his dreams, but the entrance hall remains pristine.

Hannibal spends a lot of time here, Will knows. It is preferable, after all, to the solitary cell in which he finds himself.

He pushes open the wrought-iron gate and steps onto the aisle.

_Alpha._

Hannibal stands with his back turned to him, his face upturned and eyes on the painted image of the Omegan Jesus _Pantocrator._ His ashen hair is shorter than Will remembers; a cheap prison cut that he no doubt despises. His shoulders are a little less broad, his waist a little less trim, but he still cuts a striking figure in the plaid suit he’s chosen to wear in this visage, and Will’s pulse falters. His breath leaves him in a rush and he smells himself; thick and sweet. His belly clenches and an ache, hovering somewhere between pleasure and pain, wrings a low whine from him.

Inside the glass-fronted cell, Hannibal feels his own heart sip a beat at the sound of Will’s distress. He sets his drawing down – his beloved Omega, arms wrapped around their children, or, at least, how he imagines their children now look, strangers as they are to him – and turns around to look upon him.

Will removes his glasses and tucks them into a pocket of the waxed jacket draped over his arm. Memories assault him, battering away his defenses until he’s as exposed as the day they Bonded. He remembers their first kiss. Their first time. The dark, delicious thrill when they Courted, each of them sending killers after the other.

He remembers the night Hannibal Cut him. The night he tried to take it all away, and set Will free in a way he never wanted.

When he speaks, his voice is heavy with a thousand possible futures. A thousand “what ifs” and “maybes”.

‘Hello, Dr Lecter.’ 

Hannibal locks eyes with him. Red and gold. Alpha and Omega. Two sides of the same coin. Perfect opposites. Perfect equals.

He takes a slow, deep breath, scenting him, and allows the flavors of the Omega to settle on his tongue.

Will is conflicted. Frightened, yes, and fear does smell so very _good_ on him. He’s also flushed with anger, tingling with desire and desperately lonely.

Six years is a long time, and everybody knows that Omegas are not designed to be alone.

‘Hello, Will.’


End file.
